


X-men: World of Gray

by Niralle



Category: Marvel (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Action, Angst, Bromance, Friendship, Philosophy, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 85,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niralle/pseuds/Niralle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpt from chapter 33:</p><p>	Charles was stable.  That was the best news the doctors could provide, and as Erik stood by his friend's bedside, his arms were folded tight to his chest.  Charles lay on the mattress, a starched white bed sheet draping him from chest to feet.  His eyes remained open.  His arms rested outside the covers with tubes protruding from his skin like he was a component of a machine and nothing more.</p><p>	That was, after all, what Erik had reduced him to already.  At the base.</p><p>	Gingerly, Erik extended his hand.  He wrapped his fingers around Charles' left wrist, just above the dark ring of purple staining his skin.  Words ached in Erik's throat, but he didn't bother with any.  He had been such a fool.  He had allowed the other mutants to manipulate his better judgment, to make an enemy of their own kind like dogs eating each other.</p><p>	<i>Never again.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Not AU:** This story fits directly into the X-men movie universe between X-men: First Class and the original X-men movie. 

**Complete:** This story is 100% finished; I'm only doing some minor editing to it. I will post a new chapter on a regular basis.

 **Rating:** This is a solid “T” rating. There is minor language, darker tones, violence, sexual content, and character angst. 

_*This is not a slash story, but there’s definitely some bromance moments and a deeper understanding of Charles and Erik’s complex relationship and opposing philosophies. It’s the main reason I decided to write this piece in the first place. Also, there is a lot of information about spinal cord injury that I hope will give Charles' condition deeper realism._

_Enjoy!_

 

Chapter 1:

 

The CIA hadn't cleaned up the rubble. The research base Shaw had attacked five months before was cloaked with black tarps; construction equipment littered the lawn like trash beside a dumpster. Crumbled cement from the main atrium had been tossed into piles and left aside. The place looked most unfortunate.

Such a pity—it was about to have another misfortune.

Knelt down in the grass just off from the base, Magneto glanced to his left. "You ready?" he asked. 

Beside him, Mystique nodded, her gold eyes practically glowing in the night's dim light. She didn't say anything, and Magneto knew better than to throw instructions or orders at the young woman. She didn't appreciate either. And she was good at following his lead without him offering any. 

They stood and walked. Slowly. Casually. Like a stroll in a park, and as Magneto and Mystique approached the base, he could already hear the thunderous booming from within. 

Azazel and Riptide had already made their way inside.

High above them, there was a flash of red. A man screamed, falling. On the other side of the base, he plummeted, and even from the distance, Magneto could hear the man's body crash into the base's roof. Then another flash of red. Another man fell. 

Then another. 

Beside him, Mystique flinched but said nothing.

Magneto reached one of the side doors. He flicked his hand. The metal lock snapped like a matchstick between two fingers, and he and Mystique entered. Inside, things were already chaotic. Down the hall, Magneto heard agents screaming, heard guns fired—and footfalls reverberated across the tiled flooring. Gusts of air raged around him and Mystique; deeper inside the complex, Riptide was busy. 

Of course, the other mutant was merely a distraction. So was Azazel, Emma and Angel, all weaving throughout the base like a lion pack maneuvering towards its prey. 

"This way," Magneto told Mystique, and they walked down the hall.

In front of them, agents raced through an intersecting hallway, their black jackets and ties flapping through the air. Guns were held at the ready. Magneto glided in front of Mystique, waiting for one of the agents to glance their direction. 

It took but an instant.

Two agents skidded to a stop, their polished dress shoes squeaking on the tiles. They raised their firing hands. Magneto stretched out his arms; he felt the metal within his invisible grasp. The guns exploded into fragments as if they were made of glass.

The men stood in stunned silence. Beside him, Mystique stepped out of Magneto’s shadow, her bright blue body illuminated by the neon lights above them. Then her casual stroll burst into a run. 

Within seconds, she reached the men. Her right leg swung out, catching the first man in the throat. He gasped, but before he had a chance to react, she shifted her body, her left leg kicking as her right one found flooring again. As he clutched his neck, the man stumbled back into the wall behind him and stayed there.

Her form had improved; Azazel's training was certainly paying off.

Nonetheless, it wasn't perfect.

She had become too focused on the first opponent and forgot about the second. 

Magneto continued to walk towards them, watching as the other agent slammed his fist into Mystique's face. The woman cried out, her voice suddenly very innocent. The man shouted profanities as he landed another fist, this one into her side. 

With it, Mystique's strong demeanor crumbled. She dropped to the ground, curling into herself as the man began kicking. Magneto watched a second more, hoping the girl would regain her senses and find her opportunity to fight back. 

Upon the third kick, Magneto had enough.

With a sway of his hand, a fragment of metal from one of the destroyed guns flipped in the air. The black shard pierced the man's left temple; he dropped like someone had swung a bat into the back of his knees.

Gasping on the floor, Mystique finally lifted her head. Her nose was bleeding, the red a bright contrast against her sapphire skin. Her expression screamed of pain and she was panting. As Magneto extended a hand to her, however, she immediately accepted it and started to stand.

"Are you all right?" he asked as she got her feet under her.

Heaving out another breath, Mystique said, "I—I wasn't thinking. I got too caught up…I looked away from him—"

"You made a mistake. And you survived it. That's all that matters."

“Thanks to you.”

“Little details.”

By his side, Mystique wiped the blood from her face. There was a bruise on her abdomen, creating a darker blue tint than the rest of her. Magneto grimaced at that, but said nothing.

The agents had become scarce. The winds had calmed in the hallway. With Mystique again at his side, Magneto began his walk. Up a flight of stairs, past the dead bodies left by his mutant brothers and sisters—Magneto found the office.

It belonged to the director of the CIA. No one was there.

As he stepped inside, Magneto immediately spotted his target—the same black file cabinet he had stolen Shaw's file from months before. Unlocking it, Magneto began retrieving folders. 

There was one for each of them now. Just like Shaw, Magneto and the other mutants were on the CIA's radar—to be hunted. To be captured and detained, and eventually killed.

Magneto knew the process.

"Here," he said to Mystique as he pulled out her folder.

Although they had assumed the file existed, her youthful eyes still gaped at the paperwork like it was bloody knife in her hands. Gingerly, she began rifling through it.

"Here's more," Magneto said as he handed her his file—and then Emma's, Azazel's, Riptide's, and Angel's—as he continued his search. 

Holding the mound of paperwork, Mystique whispered, "They have copies, you know. Probably in every CIA base they own."

"They know we exist now," Magneto said as he continued sifting. "It's not a matter of hiding anymore. We simply need to know all they know."

Mystique dumped the papers to a nearby table, all the files on Magneto's band of mutants. But Magneto didn't stop there. He retrieved other names, names he hadn't heard or spoken out loud in five months:

McCoy, Hank. Cassidy, Sean. Summers, Alex.

He knelt down to the lowest drawer. Pulled it out all the way.

He grabbed one last file.

Xavier, Charles

Magneto held the folder in his hands. Clipped to the front was a picture of Charles, a small, black and white photo of the man just a few years younger than he was. Behind him, Mystique hovered over his shoulder, staring at Charles' face. 

Magneto closed the file cabinet. He straightened up and walked to the director's mahogany desk on the opposite side of the room. He sat down. On the other side, Mystique eased herself into one of the visitor chairs, waiting.

Magneto opened the file. Most of the forms were handwritten and barely legible—notes about Charles' telepathy. What the CIA had observed him doing during his time with them; specific incidences agents had noted. Mind control and manipulation. Reading thoughts. The concerns—the dangers. The _opportunities._

Magneto's file read the same, he was certain. So did Mystique's and the others. 

But that didn't surprise him. Nothing humans could think of surprised him.

He flipped through the paperwork. Past the reports—past Charles' college transcript and the copy of his academic resumé—Magneto reached the back.

As he stared at the final report, an uneasy breath escaped his lips.

Cuba.

Reluctantly, he read the details. Most of it was written by Moira MacTaggert just a day after the mission, explaining what had really happened on the beach. He skimmed through the section, noticing the woman's writing as it grew more expressive the further she explained the crash of the Blackbird jet, to Shaw's death, to Magneto's "mutiny," as she had written it. To Charles and his injury.

Then, the papers switched from eggshell white to baby blue. Medical forms.

A knot tightened in Magneto's stomach.

Some medical documents originated from one of the naval ships Magneto had tried to destroy, noting Charles' transfer from Cuban waters to a hospital in southern Florida. The rest were from the hospital. There was a diagram of a body. A diagram of a back. There were notes, hand-written by doctors and nurses with arrows pointing to the lower thoracic section of the diagram's spinal column. An X-ray showed an abnormal spine, its vertebrae broken and out of position.

Magneto gripped the folder's edges.

"What?" Mystique asked. "What is it?"

Magneto had avoided knowing what had happened to his friend for five months. Now, as he stared at Charles' medical records, there it was. Burning his retinas.

"He's paralyzed," Magneto spoke and slammed the file shut.

From the door, a flash of red appeared. With it, the band of mutants—Magneto's brothers and sisters—stared his direction.

"Did you find it?" Riptide asked as he stepped into the room.

Magneto stood. His legs felt as if all the strength had been zapped out of them; his heart was hammering in his chest. But he didn't let the others know that. Strength was what they needed from him, no matter the circumstances. 

"I haven't looked for it yet," Magneto replied and then slid Charles' file to the other side of the desk.

Immediately, Mystique snatched it up and started fumbling through the back.

With a roll of his eyes, Riptide breezed by Magneto. The other man tossed a glimpse at the files scattered across the small table and then jerked open the file cabinet. Within seconds, the annoyance on Riptide’s features melted away as he yanked a single folder from the top shelf.

"Here we go," he declared, holding up the thick file as if it was a trophy. 

On its corner, a single word.

Cerebro.

End of Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

_One month later…_

Renovations were taking longer than expected. At least a dozen contractors scurried through the mansion that afternoon, and as Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair in the foyer, he listened as furniture and appliances were being uprooted throughout the home like weeds yanked from a garden. In front of him, a burly man stood in an undershirt and jeans, the clothing stained as if he had spent his day underneath a car.

"Here's the problem, Mr. Xavier," the foreman explained with a cigarette wedged between his lips. "The roll-out drawers you need for your kitchen cabinets can't be ordered from my distributor. There's a company in Arizona that sells them, but the ones they have won't fit into your kitchen's layout. Now, we can make them for you ourselves. But we'd have to start from scratch, you see, and that'll take time, men and supplies, and well…" The man huffed out a breath of smoke.

Ignoring the acrid scent of cheap tobacco, Charles replied, "If I may ask, exactly how much are we talking for all this ‘time, men and supplies’?"

"At least a thousand more than the original estimate."

“That seems a bit excessive.”

“For a rich guy like you, I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

“That’s not the point.”

It was like a game of poker where the opponent kept peeking at his cards. The foreman knew Charles was well-off and knew Charles needed the renovations. Gold-digging, it seemed, wasn't just found in California. 

On that thought, Charles placed his left elbow on his armrest, and brought his middle and point fingers to his left temple. “I believe I might have an alternative solution,” Charles said as he read the other man’s mind. “Why don’t you give Mulloy's Hardware and Supplies a ring, speak with your friend, Gary, and have him phone his distributors about some roll-out cabinets? I’m certain he can fetch a decent set.”

The man gawked at him, his cigarette dangling off his bottom lip. “How’d you know about Gary?”

“That should cut the costs a bit, yes?” Charles replied and dropped his hand. 

The man blinked and then slacked his shoulders in obvious disappointment. "Yeah, fine. Whatever." 

Sucking in another lungful of smoke and trying to hide his displeasure, the foreman was off. As he turned a corner, Charles lowered his head and rubbed the back of his neck. The other man was too tall. Gazing upwards from his wheelchair every time he talked to someone was cramping his neck like a set of hands constantly trying to strangle him.

It wasn't the first time Charles had a _discussion_ with the foreman. He was one of several others, in fact. That day, they were gutting the kitchen, hauling out the old refrigerator and installing a new one with the icebox on the bottom instead of the top—custom-made, of course. Same with the oven. Charles couldn’t reach the knobs on the old one; he couldn't open the oven door without his wheelchair getting in the way. He required side-doors and knobs fitted on the front so he could use them.

Next week, another set of contractors would tackle the flooring, replacing most of the carpet throughout the mansion’s rooms with high-resistant hardwood floors. Electricians needed to install new, lower light switches and phones. Cords for the ceiling fans would have to be re-routed to wall panels. Doorways needed to be widened. The elevator Charles had wanted was still on the backburner; he hadn’t seen anything except the mansion's first floor in six months.

Things were getting complicated.

Pursing his lips, Charles grabbed the handrims to his wheelchair and pushed off. He preferred his motorized one, but his physical therapists insisted he still needed to increase his upper body strength. Using his arms to lug himself around would certainly gain him some.

Around the mansion, there was an endless hum of chatter, a constant presence of men and always the rancid scent of cigarette smoke. As Charles rolled down the hallway, he focused his mind on the only few people in the home he knew.

On the third floor, Sean was boxing up old, unnecessary items in the bedrooms where the student dormitories would eventually be constructed. On the upstairs balcony, Alex was leaning against the stone railing, taking a breather from all the racket inside. 

Both young men had been working hard to help the contractors renovate the mansion for the last several months. They were sick of the mess, the noise and the smells as much as Charles, but neither complained about such matters. 

It was the young man Charles sensed in the basement that had him concerned. Down below in the only area not overrun by workers, Hank McCoy was keeping busy. As Charles concentrated his telepathy on the large, blue man, he observed through Hank’s eyes that he was sketching a blueprint. Charles already knew what it was—a new design for Cerebro. Since leaving the CIA, Hank had lost access to his originals, and had been working to re-make them for months. Among other things.

Stopping close to the kitchen, Charles set his fingers to his temple again. _Hank?_ he called. _You’re growing tired, my friend. Why don’t you take a break?_

There was a pause, and then Charles heard Hank’s mental voice, _I—I think I’ve finally adjusted the right amount of voltage to correctly enhance Cerebro’s amplifiers through the motherboard’s interface._

Charles sighed. _That’s marvelous, Hank. But how about I ask the workers to break early, and you see some daylight for a change?_

_I can see it tomorrow._

_You can see it today._

Another pause and through Charles' telepathy, he sensed Hank’s irritation. _You don’t have to keep checking up on me, Charles. You’ve got enough going on right now. I'm fine._

Charles sensed a jab of anxiety—Hank’s anxiety—and it soured his stomach. Worry—fear. But it wasn’t Hank fearing for himself. He was afraid for Charles.

Charles released the mental link. He appreciated the concern four months before, right after he returned home from the acute care rehabilitation clinic. Now, it was growing bothersome.

Charles peeked into his kitchen as the contractors continued ripping appliances from the wall. Even the sink had to be removed, a lower, more narrow one put in its place. No cabinets could be built underneath; Charles needed the space for his wheelchair.

Shooting one last glimpse at the workers in the kitchen, Charles wheeled away. At the end of the hall, he reached one of the large, octagonal windows that managed to hold the 18th century décor from when the mansion was first constructed. Outside, the day was sunny. The six hundred acres surrounding his home were waking from winter; emerald green had already started to bud on all the trees. Hints of yellow flowers were scattered across the lawn like gold coins tossed from a treasure chest.

In the distance, the large, white satellite dish at the edge of his property was the only contrast to the scenery. The bulky thing was angled away from the mansion now, back to its original position. Like nothing had happened to it. Like Erik had never been there.

Slowly, Charles removed his right hand from his armrest and rested it on his leg. The limb was warm—alive. But it didn’t respond to his touch; it couldn’t feel his hand on top of it. It was like he was touching someone else’s leg. His doctors insisted he would get used to the sensation. It would feel normal…eventually.

Lifting his hand away, Charles turned from the window, the sun’s rays warming the back of his head. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Stealing government files was a federal offense, punishable by up to ten years in prison and a twenty thousand dollar fine. Deep in the CIA's headquarters, no one expected an intruder would be capable of sneaking inside and snatching up paperwork. But Agent Moira MacTaggert wasn't really stealing the file. She was simply borrowing it.

Tucked into her briefcase, the folder remained hidden as Moira flashed her CIA badge to security. They nodded and allowed her to pass. Exiting through the building's front entrance, Moira started towards her car, her short, black skirt swaying gently in the cool evening breeze.

Behind her, she heard the chatter of other agents, the deep voices approaching. Gripping the briefcase's handle, she continued to walk, keeping her stride casual and eyes straight ahead. _Don't look back._ She knew if she did, one of them would spot the anxiety on her face and realize something wasn't right.

Stealing government papers…she must have been losing her mind.

The men passed her, laughing to themselves as they strolled towards their cars. Moira held her chin high, and as she reached the driver's side of her Buick Skylark, she unlocked the door and slid inside. Tossing the briefcase in the passenger's seat, she started the ignition, and then got the hell out of there.

It took less than ten minutes to get to her apartment. As soon as Moira closed the front door, she hustled to her sofa, opening the briefcase as she went. She dropped the folder to her coffee table and immediately started sifting through the documents inside.

It was William Stryker's report from the Cuban Missile Crisis. Moira had already read her own report from that day, apparently written while she was in Florida. With Charles, in a hospital.

From her report, she had a vague understanding what had happened on the beach that day; as she skimmed through Stryker's, it appeared that his correlated with hers almost verbatim. Sebastian Shaw had been killed. There had been a mutiny. Erik, Raven and Shaw's mutants banded together. Missiles had been launched by both the American and Soviet ships. Moira had radioed from the Blackbird jet, urging the fleet to stop just seconds before, but it had been too late. Charles and Erik got into a fight.

And then…

Moira tried to keep her breathing steady. Charles' medical records had been attached to her report and even Stryker's. A gun shot wound to his vertebrae—laceration of the spinal cord. Compression. Inflammation. There were several X-rays and diagrams. It had been her gun that did the damage.

But she didn't remember any of it, at least not anymore.

Stryker's file made reference to her amnesia. She had handed her report to other agents when they arrived in Florida. Then, a few weeks later, Charles was transferred somewhere else…and the CIA lost track of them both. She had taken a leave of absence and didn't tell any of them where she went.

They could have fired her—probably would have—except, when she returned to HQ, she had no idea where she had been. She couldn't recall anything after travelling home from Moscow and the weeks proceeding it. After that, the CIA stopped hounding her.

Moira flipped through the rest of Stryker's report. She wasn't interested in his displeasure of including "untrained, unauthorized freaks" on her team or his tangents about what "these people" were capable of. No. What she really wanted to know was what had happened in the war room, just before everything went to hell.

Near the back, she found the transcripts. A single page, much of it dedacted—more black ink blotted the paper than words. Nonetheless, what remained on the page was enough:

"The Russians share our concern…"

"We'll never have another opportunity…"

"Fleet Commander, this is X-ray Bravo 7-0. Respond—over. The beach is secure—call off the attack… 

…Hello? _Hello?"_  


Her hands began to tremble.

They had known the beach no longer posed a threat. They had received her distress call. 

They ignored it.

Looking away from the paper in her hands, Moira closed the file. Her vision began to blur, the focus fleeting away as if the world had just shifted one direction and she another. Sitting silently, Moira leaned her head back against the sofa, holding the page loosely in her grasp.

  


**End of Chapter 2**  



	3. Chapter 3

The metal panels floated throughout the spherical room, gliding in the air as if dancing to music. They swayed with Magneto's hands, and eventually fastened into place throughout the walls. As they connected with a soft _clank_ , the gray rectangular blocks began to hum.

Cerebro. The machine was ready for them.

Easing his hands to his sides, Magneto inspected the four-story spherical room. A few feet away, Azazel was showing Mystique another defense move—a common sight those days. The other mutants were checking Cerebro's console. 

In truth, the machine's motherboard was small, just enough processors to fill up a walk-in closet. The main issue was Cerebro's amplifiers. Magneto had to cut through solid rock for a week just to create the right spherical shape for them to function.

Further away from the other mutants and Cerebro laid their base of operations. Up four steps from the machine, the place looked quite different. Modern facilities. A living area, kitchen—expensive ivory carpet laced the floor. 

Magneto tried hard not to roll his eyes.

It was one of Shaw's old bases—one of several, really. This one was set on an uninhabited island three hundred miles off the western coast of the United States. Before he died, Shaw had accumulated enough money and resources to finance a small country. How ironic his resources could now be utilized for Magneto's cause.

On that thought, Magneto brought his attention to Cerebro's main console.

"So,” he called to Riptide and Angel as they flipped switches on the motherboard. "What's the verdict here?"

In his light violet suit, the young man smiled at him, his ebony hair getting in his eyes. "I think we have it," he said, a slight Spanish accent rolling off his tongue.

Azazel and Mystique finished sparring. The blue woman nodded once at her teacher, and then approached Magneto. Azazel's gaze followed her; Magneto had noticed that more often lately. Reaching him, the girl wrapped an arm around Magneto's waist. He closed his hand over hers, her textured skin soft against his palm. 

Nonetheless, Magneto's eyes were fixed on Emma. The telepath. This was her game now. She was the only one of them who could operate Cerebro, the only one who could find more mutants to bring to their cause. It wasn't a small task he was requesting of her.

"Are you ready for this?" Magneto asked.

Dressed in a white one-piece that was just a little too snug, Emma stood beside Cerebro's platform. In her hands, she was inspecting the machine’s helmet; they had substituted it with a heavy headband, individual electrodes, and enough wires to ring around the Earth a few times. 

"Your telepath friend didn't have any problems?" she asked.

"Quite the opposite, really," Magneto said. "I think he enjoyed it."

Emma brought the headband up, wrapping the device around her thick blond hair. Its wires spilled around her. She stepped up to the platform in the center of Cerebro, her arms to her sides.

Magneto nodded at the platform's railing. "You might want to hold on to that."

Emma did as instructed. She stood straight, her head held high. But for the first time since knowing her, Magneto detected a tinge of worry in her deep blue eyes. She didn't like being the lab rat. How funny—Charles had practically jumped at the idea. The man's fascination had overwhelmed any fears he might have possessed, if he had any in the first place. Charles had a tendency of thinking good intentions always brought about good results. 

Magneto lowered his head.

How very wrong his friend had been.

"Start it at the lowest setting," Magneto told Riptide. "No need to rush into this."

The other man grabbed one of Cerebro's levers. Throughout the spherical room, the panels _boomed_ , the lights across the ceiling dimming. Emma held still, the headband giving off an icy blue glow.

Then, just as it had been with Charles, Cerebro sparked to life. Emma gasped, her eyes averting away from all of them as if she was viewing something they couldn't. Her hands clasped to the platform's railing. Her lips quivered.

Magneto and the others watched silently. The glow across her headband intensified; her pupils flicked back and forth like she was trying to focus on a thousand different things at once and couldn't quite succeed. She clenched her jaw.

Magneto and Mystique exchanged looks. The woman's golden stare shimmered with concern, and as Magneto turned back to Emma, he raised a hand. 

"All right," he called out. "That's enough for now. Shut it down."

"We haven't received any coordinates yet,” Riptide came back.

"I said shut it down."

Riptide’s expression darkened, but he did as he was told. As he lowered the lever, Cerebro shut off. Above them, the lights brightened again. The noise across the panels returned to a drone.

On the platform, Emma took in a few long breaths. Her hands released the railing, and she brought her attention to Magneto. Although she was sweating, her face still held a trace of amusement.

"So," he said with a tight grin, "was that good for you?"

The woman didn’t reply. Suddenly, the amusement on her features vanished; she blinked her eyes as if a speck of sand had become trapped in one of them, and then, a drop of crimson dripped from her nose. It landed on her perfect white shirt, staining the fabric. 

Emma peered down. Then, lifting one hand to her face, she used the other to yank away the headband before she hurried off the platform.

**End of Chapter**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi, readers! Here is one of the hardest chapters I wrote for this fan fiction. It took a lot of research on spinal cord injury to write it, and I’ll warn you now, I’m not holding anything back. These are real issues people with this condition face, and I wanted to make it as accurate as possible.**

  
**Chapter 4…**   


The Salem Outpatient Rehabilitation Center was one of the most revered rehabilitation clinics in New York. Inside one of the smaller therapy rooms, Charles lay—back-to-floor—on an exercise mat. Wheelchairs and walkers lined the room's walls; wooden ramps and extra mats were stuffed in the corners. An aroma of lemon-lime coursed through the air like someone had gotten a little too excited with the cleaning solution that day. 

That didn't really bother him, however—especially at the moment. His attention was focused at his feet as his physical therapy assistant, Edith, heaved his right leg into the air. She explained the stretch she was performing, explained how he had to be cautious as his hamstrings would shrink over time due to inactivity. He had to stretch every morning; he had to keep his legs in exceptional form.

She had explained all these things before, but Charles didn't mind. The petite, auburn-haired girl had a kind face, sparkling chocolate eyes, and plump lips. She could recite the entire Oxford dictionary, and he'd still enjoy it. 

"All right," Edie said and bent his leg down. "I'm going to apply weight to your hamstrings. You'll feel some pressure in your abdomen."

She leaned into him—hard. It drove his thigh and all her weight right into his stomach.

"Edie!" he gasped as she pressed herself tight against him. “For God’s sake, love—are you performing stretches or practicing some type of wrestling technique?”

She eased up a little. “That better?”

As his gut re-inflated, Charles let out a breath. "You don’t know your own strength, my dear. If you insist on manhandling me, you could at least buy me a drink first.”

The woman paused at that. Those fabulous eyes twinkled, and then a breath of laughter escaped her lips. 

"Stop it," she said with a smile.

"Stop what?" He smiled back.

"You know _what_. We're not in a bar, you know." 

"Wouldn't it be spectacular if we were? After a few pints, these exercises would certainly be much more…appealing."

Closing her eyes, Edie’s lips curved even higher. Lifting herself away, she lowered his right leg, and then started on the left. "I'm on to you, you know."

"Really? How so?" 

"I've heard rumors. The other assistants say you've been flirting with the entire support staff." The woman bent his left leg and leaned into him just as hard as she had the right one.

Sucking in a breath as the pressure hit his stomach, Charles still managed to grin cheek-to-cheek. "Yes, but you more than anyone. And I save all my best lines for you." 

It was a tacky remark at best, but it got him exactly what he desired. Edie rolled her eyes, a touch of annoyance and amusement sketched on her features. Her auburn hair fell around her face. Charles used to prefer blondes, but those days, a woman with the mutated MCR-1 gene just captured him. 

"You're awful, Charles," the woman replied, and then pulled herself away.

Charles used his arms to sit up. He knew the routine; they were almost finished with his physical therapy for the day. If he wasn’t doing therapy, then it was wheelchair training. Or nutrition information—exercise evaluations—or educational sessions on pain management, bladder and bowel management, and whatever else his body could throw at him. 

"Is there anything you want to work on?" Edie asked him as she sat by his feet. 

Charles thought a moment. "Nothing in particular, love. But I’m always up for your expert advice." 

“How about your floor-to-wheelchair transfers? Have you been practicing those?"

"I have been."

"Any problems?"

"No, I think I have it now. It simply takes all bloody day."

Edie patted his knee. "It'll get faster over time. Just be patient with it. You don't want to get frustrated and slip, and wind up with a pressure ulcer."

No, he certainly didn't want that.

The room's door opened. Without a word, another woman entered, this one older with blonde hair sprinkled with gray, and her features not nearly as kind as the woman perched at Charles' feet. The center's clinical director, Katherine Boggs.

Plopping a folder to an exam table near the door's entrance, she called out without looking, "Mr. Bailey is here for his eleven o'clock appointment, Edie."

That was all the direction the younger woman required. With a reassuring smile Charles' way, Edie stood and then walked out. Sitting on the floor, Charles watched as Katherine read the folder.

He didn't need his telepathy to know what it was—the only thing it could be. 

His medical chart.

After a minute, Katherine threw an impassive glance over her shoulder. "Hello, Charles.”

Releasing a breath, he said, "Hello, Katherine. How are you doing this lovely day?"

"Just fine. Yourself?" 

"Splendid." 

"Has Edie been treating you well?" 

He shot a glimpse at his legs, awkwardly crossed together where Edie had been working on them. "Indeed. I believe she was attempting to make funny animal shapes out of me today."

Katherine twisted around to him, but there was no amusement on her features.

"That was a joke,” he said.

"Yes, I know," the woman replied, and got back to his chart.

Charles pressed his lips together and decided best to just keep them shut.

After a minute, Katherine grabbed his medical file and shut the room’s door. She approached him. Kneeling by his legs, she pulled out a pair of latex gloves, a safety pin and a cotton swab. 

"Charles," Katherine said as she gloved her hands, "if it's all right with you, I would like to perform another sensory assessment exam on your lower extremities. Light touch and pinprick. You understand?"

Charles nodded. He had already gone through this routine on several occasions, and now it was about time for his six-month evaluation. They did his motor function assessment earlier that week, and yet another rectal exam (which was always so delightful) the week before. Sensory function was the final assessment.

"Would you prefer the exam table?” Katherine asked.

“The mat will do well enough, thank you.”

“Then I need you to remove your sweatpants and lie on your stomach, please.” 

Dropping to his back, Charles began wiggling off the sweats. Katherine helped as he struggled to slide the elastic ankle bands off his feet. Then, in his boxers, Charles grabbed his right calf, and manually dragged the paralyzed limb until it was straight. He crossed his left over his right; then, reaching up, he used his arms and torso to force his body to roll. On his stomach, Charles rested his hands under his chin and tried to ignore the mat’s aroma of sweat and vinyl. 

"Tell me when you feel a dull or sharp sensation," Katherine said, "even if it’s abnormal."

Charles kept his vision ahead. Behind him, he knew Katherine was lifting his right leg; he could feel the weight shift in his upper body. And he knew what the sensory assessment exam would entail. The cotton swab she'd touch to his skin was for light sensation and the safety pin for the pain assessment.

But he couldn't feel her hands on his skin; he couldn’t feel the sensation of the test.

He closed his eyes. He concentrated.

He _waited._

Several minutes passed. At some point, Katherine had switched from his right leg to his left but the results were the same. He remained silent.

It wasn't until she reached the arch of his back that he sensed anything. Just below the scar from the gun shot wound, he felt pressure. 

"There," he said.

"Sharp or dull?" Katherine asked. 

"I don’t know—simply pressure, I suppose."

She glided further up. The higher she went, the more real the sensation. Directly at the gun shot wound, he felt the prick. A needle, lightly poking his back. He groaned.

"There?" Katherine asked. 

Charles gave a nod.

She continued the sensation assessment. After several more minutes, Charles rolled over and Katherine checked the rest of his lower body. As she finished, she peeled off her gloves and then retrieved a pen from her jacket pocket. 

"We're done here," Katherine said as she jotted something down in his chart. "If you have a few minutes, I'd like to discuss a couple things with you in my office."

"Of course."

"Do you need help dressing?

“No.”

“Transferring to your wheelchair?”

"I can handle it, thank you."

"Then I'll meet with you when you're done."

Pocketing her pen, Katherine snatched up all her things and headed for the door. Pitching the cotton swab, gloves and safety pin into a trash can, she was off, not looking back as Charles placed a hand to his wheelchair beside him and began scooting himself towards it on the mat.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The entrance to Katherine Boggs' office was wider than most and the door was a light-weight pine. Rolling his wheelchair through and shutting the door, Charles approached Katherine's desk. A couple chairs lined the walls, intentionally moved aside for the disabled patients like him. On the opposite side of the desk, Katherine sat, reading his medical chart like she was studying for an exam.

In his wheelchair, Charles laced his fingers together, and dropped his hands to his lap.

"First," Katherine began as she finally peeked up, "do you have any new issues that have arisen since our last meeting?"

Charles cleared his throat. "No. None that I'm aware of."

"Are you still experiencing pain in your back?"

"It flares up at times, yes.”

“Enough to hinder your daily activities?”

“Not typically.”

The woman wrote something in his chart— _scribble-scribble-scribble._ "I know you started using the intermittent catheters about eight weeks ago," she went on. "How are those working out for you?" 

"Much better than the indwelling ones, for certain."

"Any accidents?"

"No. Thank God."

"Any leakage?"

"No."

"Good. Intermittents are still a little experimental, but not having a catheter continually inside your body will reduce the chance of urinary tract infections…”

_It’s also nice not to have a urine bag strapped to my leg,_ Charles thought to himself.

“…so if you notice any leakage, don’t give up on it—just change your bladder schedule. Four hours intervals are the gold standard, but if you decide to down five cups of coffee one morning, you might want to ‘cath’ more frequently that day."

"I’m keeping a schedule—thank you.”

With that, Katherine jumped to other topics. Did he need any prescription refills? Was he experiencing any shoulder pain from all the wheelchair use? How was his bowel management? How about the muscle spasms?

"I know the contractions can be frustrating," she told him. "But as long as they don't impede your normal activities, some spasticity will help maintain muscle tone and prevent edema. So try to avoid the muscle relaxers unless you truly feel they're necessary."

“I understand.”

In his lap, Charles' hands fidgeted. 

Katherine kept on with her note-taking and lecture-giving; watching her, Charles had the sudden urge to plant his fingers to his temple and dive into her mind. He knew why he was there. He knew what they were going to discuss. 

Katherine was about to give him his final diagnosis for his injury.

During his stay in the hospital six months before, the medical staff had classified him as a "complete T12 spinal cord injury." His spinal cord hadn’t actually been severed completely—they had explained—but due to inflammation, the sliver of it still intact didn’t seem to be functioning. Of course, with everything else going on in his body, it was impossible to be certain of that. It would take months, they told him, before they could make a final diagnosis. 

The months had passed. The trauma to his body had calmed.

Sitting there, Charles felt his heart begin to pound.

As she lifted her head, Katherine’s gaze finally bumped into his. Her eyes, usually as impassive as an oak tree, glinted with kindness. Charles realized, perhaps, that might have been a bad sign.

"Here's the good news," the woman started, folding her hands together on his chart. "Your condition appears to be stable. The inflammation in your spinal cord is gone. I know the centralized pain in your back is troubling—it’s common with gun shot wounds, unfortunately—but that should lessen over time as your body continues to heal.

"You are doing an excellent job keeping up with your stretches and strength training. Your upper body strength is almost back to normal and should continue improving, and your trunk has excellent balance. You shouldn't have any problems keeping yourself in your wheelchair."

Then, the caring shimmer in Katherine's gaze shifted—it was faint, but Charles still noticed it. Reluctance.

"Now, I need to discuss your initial injury," Katherine said. "I realize you've already had discussions about your original diagnosis at the acute care clinic."

Charles bobbed his head. "Of course."

"You understand that while your spinal cord was not completely severed by the gun shot wound, the fragment of the cord still intact became deeply inflamed."

"Yes." 

"And you understand that type of inflammation can severely damage the spinal cord. Even to the point of causing cell death."

_Oh, God._

Katherine squared up her shoulders. "Charles, here is the bottom line. We have performed a mobility assessment, a sensation assessment, and the rectal exam. On all three exams, you showed no voluntary muscle contraction, no mobility and no sensory perception below your level of injury.

"For those reasons," Katherine went on, "I am keeping your diagnosis the same as the one given to you from the acute care clinic—a _complete_ T12 spinal cord injury."

Charles stared at the woman as if waiting for her to say something more. When she didn't, he averted his eyes to his lap. There were several levels of spinal cord injuries, depending on the level of damage. But there were only two main classifications for its severity—complete and incomplete. An incomplete meant he would regain at least some sensation—perhaps even some mobility. It would be uneven, as the injury usually affected one side of the spinal cord compared to the other. But there would be _something._

A complete…it meant he'd never regain sensation. He'd never regain mobility.

Charles closed his eyes. He let out a breath. It was the diagnosis he was expecting, or at least, should have expected. It was the one everyone assumed he had. No wishful thinking was going to change that. In truth, nothing had changed from the time he had entered Katherine's office to where he was at that instant. 

Inhaling, Charles returned his gaze upwards. 

Katherine was eyeing him, her brow furrowed. “Are you all right, Charles?” Realizing just how pitiful he must have appeared, Charles straightened up. He offered the woman a smile like the ones he gave Edie when he wanted to make her blush. “Thank you for the concern, but it’s actually what I was expecting it to be. It’s certainly not what I was hoping for, but…” he trailed off.

“I realize I've said it before, but I know some very good psychologists who have helped a lot of people with similar conditions—"

“It's my back that's the problem, my dear—not my head.” When the concern on the woman's features didn’t clear, Charles dropped his smile. “Katherine, you explained everything quite well and I understand fully. It's what everyone assumed it would be, myself included." 

Katherine studied his face like it was a puzzle she was required to solve. When he didn't say more, she shut his file and rocked back in her chair. 

"Okay, then," Katherine said. "Unless you have further questions, we’re done."

With a bow of his head, Charles gave one last thank you, and then reeled around in his wheelchair. Wrestling with the office door, he pushed himself through and started wheeling towards the fitness room on the other side of the rehab center.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Beside one of the large floor mats, Charles lifted weights. He bent down in his wheelchair and pulled the dumbbells in upward curls and extensions. Other patients came and went; Charles greeted each one as they passed. In Spanish, Ramon playfully teased him, saying Charles was still too scrawny and needed to start lifting toothpicks before handling the big stuff. Agnes, an elderly woman, showed off her toned biceps before taking her walker outside to smoke. Charles spoke to at least a dozen other patients, chatting about their progress as they did their exercises.

The time passed swiftly. Charles’ arms ached, but he didn’t want to stop. The pain felt good. The sweat on his back felt good. His face became flushed, his palms red from gripping the dumbbells. The smell of salt coursed through his nostrils.

By mid-afternoon, he had slid down from his wheelchair to a mat, and begun working on his stretches. Other patients had finished and said their good-byes. Soon, it was only him there. 

No laughter. No chatter. No people. 

Just him, sitting on his mat, his legs sprawled unnaturally in front of him. 

He stared down. His gray sweat pants were the same he had worn during his training with the other mutants the week before Cuba. They seemed loose on him now—baggy. His legs were losing their muscle tone; eventually, they’d look like rails.

With his left hand, Charles snagged the bottom of his pants and then dragged his right ankle towards him. Laying it across his left thigh, he examined his leg. The limb was motionless, of course. No movement—no feeling. No matter how often he called out to it, it just laid there. 

Dead weight.

That was all the lower half of him was now. Dead…and useless.

A knot caught in Charles’ throat. Instantly, he cleared it away. He was being ridiculous. Feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to get him anything except more awkward stares from Katherine and more harping from Hank. Shaking his head, Charles reached over and grabbed his exercise towel from his wheelchair. 

He needed to get home. He had contractors there, and neither Alex nor Sean really knew all the renovations that needed to take place. And Hank—God. The poor boy. He had been trapped in the underbelly of Charles’ mansion all day.

Wiping off the last bit of sweat from his neck, Charles slapped his towel on one of his chair’s armrests, and then began the long process of transferring himself onto the seat.

  


**End of Chapter 4**  



	5. Chapter 5

Emma Frost sat on the edge of a curved velvet sofa. The soft yellow lights above made her white dress appear ivory; as usual, her expression offered Magneto no hint on how she felt. Below her eyes, however, dark rings had developed. She hadn't slept much the last few days. Under her nose, she held a tissue, suppressing yet another bleed.

Just a few feet away, the spherical room that made up Cerebro was cooling down.

As he sat on the other end of the sofa, Magneto had his arms stretched out on its back. Dressed in a simple black turtle neck and slacks, he tried to keep his expression as laid-back as his attire. Mystique sat to his left and didn't bother to hide her apprehension.

They had double-checked the machine. They had yanked out circuit boards, tested the wiring and ripped panels off the walls. Perhaps Cerebro wasn't getting enough energy; perhaps the walls were interfering with the amplifiers. The island base was carved out of a cave—a mix of marble and granite. Magneto cut deeper into rock until there was nothing between Cerebro and the rest of the world except sky and ocean.

None of that mattered. Each time Emma used the machine, it caused her pain. Or, better put, it was merely "too much," as she had expressed it.

"Azazel's already checked out the coordinates," Riptide said as he sat beside the teleporter and Angel on an Overman couch across from Magneto. In his hands, he held one of Cerebro's print-outs. "Every mutant we've found so far isn't older than twelve. Most not even that."

Magneto tossed a look at Emma. "Do you recall seeing any adults through your readings? Ones the print-outs didn't catch, perhaps?"

Patting the bottom of her nose with the tissue, Emma shook her head.

That was the answer Magneto expected. "It appears there are more mutants emerging in this younger generation than ours," he said. "Finding older ones could be…taxing."

"All of these coordinates are from the west coast," Riptide explained. "If we were able to expand our search a little, I'm sure we'd find others."

Immediately, Emma's features tinged with anger. "I'm not about to become lobotomized in order to recruit more of our kind, sweetie."

"Maybe if you spent more than a minute using that machine, your mind would adjust."

"Perhaps you should give it a try if you think it's so simple."

Emma's expression challenged anyone to argue with her. At that, Riptide slapped the papers on an end table beside him, and then sagged back into the couch like he couldn't stand to be there anymore.

They were getting nowhere. Sliding his arms away from the sofa, Magneto bent forward. "Here is what we know," he said. "Cerebro is functioning. But we're still three hundred miles away from civilization. That could be causing some of the problems."

He glanced at Emma. Her features softening, she nodded.

"This is what we're going to do," Magneto continued. "We'll dismantle the machine. We'll take it to other bases Shaw possesses—ones closer to cities—and use Cerebro in each of them until we find more mutants. We might even recruit another telepath who could help us."

Emma's eyes glimmered with interest. The other mutants, however, didn't appear quite as enthralled.

"This isn't like moving a television, Erik, " Riptide said. "That machine has to be completely broken down and rebuilt wherever we take it. Are you planning on renovating all of Shaw's bases for this?"

Magneto studied the other man. It was funny—the first time he met Riptide, he didn't even realize the man could speak. Now, he couldn't get him to shut up. That was irony. "Unless you wish to offer another suggestion," Magneto replied, "then this is what we're doing. Do you have another suggestion?"

Magneto expected Riptide to hesitate at that. After all, what was there to argue? But the other man liked to question him—to see what he could get away—to call Magneto "Erik," although that human name no longer applied. So as a snide little grin spread on Riptide's face, Magneto simply frowned.

"Actually," the other man said, "I do have one."

Reluctantly, Magneto nodded for him to continue.

Riptide stood. He snatched the list of coordinates off the end table. "Why are we making this so complicated?" he asked. "Moving from base-to-base—asking Emma to work Cerebro when she's obviously not capable—"

"I believe she is," Magneto came back. "Given a little more time, she could master that machine."

Riptide's eyes narrowed into slits. "Why bother with all that? Having her struggle with Cerebro—trying to find other telepaths to help…when we already know someone who can work the machine."

It was like a punch to the face; Magneto instantly tensed. Within his power, the metal chains attached to the lights above shook slightly. "No," Magneto told him.

"Why not?" Riptide asked. "You know he can work the machine. You even said he enjoys it."

"We're not bringing Charles into this. He doesn't believe in our cause."

"Who cares if he believes in it? We're not asking him to go on a crusade with us. We're just asking him to work Cerebro for a few days."

Magneto turned his gaze away from the other man. No, he couldn't ask such a thing of Charles. After all that had happened—just the idea sickened him. Magneto brought his attention to Mystique. Her blue face, which had grown so strong and mature in recent months, reverted to the young girl he first met with Charles. She didn't want this. She didn't want any part of it.

"We're not going to hurt him," Riptide said as if reading their thoughts. "We'll bring him here, have him work Cerebro, and then return him home. It'd take a long weekend at most."

"Bring him?" Magneto raised an eyebrow. "You mean kidnap him."

"Unless you want to go to that mansion of his, knock on the door, and deal with all of his mutant friends…" Riptide broke off and shook his head. "This is simple, Erik. What we're asking of him is simple. But we'll need to get him away from the others. Not unless you want all of us to get into another conflict like the one at Cuba."

No, Magneto certainly didn't want that. Propping his elbows on his knees, Magneto rubbed his eyes as if they were on fire. This conversation had mutated into something far more disturbing than he would have imagined. Inside, his gut was churning with anxiety…but there was something else. Even after all that happened, the idea of seeing his old friend again forced his anger—the anger he always held to so deeply—to calm some.

"Erik," Mystique cut through his thoughts, "Charles has been through enough already. With what he's dealing with right now—you saw his file."

Magneto swept a hand through his hair. "I know."

"Maybe we could just ask him," she suggested. "I'll go alone. I'll talk to him, get him to see why—"

"He doesn't want any part of this," Riptide cut in. "He won't help unless we bring him here."

"Isn't that a clue that maybe we shouldn't be talking about this at all?" Mystique replied.

"You know, I don't remember anyone asking you."

Instantly, Mystique's eyes heated with anger. "Charles might as well be my brother," she came back. "He took me off the streets—I owe him my life." She gave Riptide a once-over. "What woman can say that about you?"

Riptide opened his mouth, clearly ready to snap back, when Magneto raised a hand. The other man caught himself. He froze as if waiting for Magneto to back down, but as Magneto held his stare, the other man reluctantly dropped back onto the sofa.

Magneto surveyed the other mutants. Angel and Azazel nodded; Emma held a tight grin on her face. Riptide stared him down, waiting for him to make a decision. Only Mystique's expression contradicted everyone else. Clouded with worry, it begged for Magneto to turn back to Riptide and contest the other man's plan. But Magneto didn't do that. He wouldn't.

As she clearly realized that fact, Mystique stood and stormed away. She'd come back after she calmed down, but Magneto knew she wouldn't help them.

No, he would have to handle it—on his own.

With that, Magneto looked past his brothers and sisters to Cerebro's main console. Resting on top of the machine was Shaw's old helmet—now his. A bright red and maroon. He had worn it a couple times the last few months; he had added some metal strips throughout its insides so someone couldn't just rip it off his head. But he hadn't _needed_ to wear it since leaving Cuba.

He'd need to wear it again.

Soon.

**End of Chapter 5**


	6. Chapter 6

Just past eleven at night, and Alex, Sean and Hank had made their way upstairs to their bedrooms. On the first floor, Charles lay in bed, working to pull his pajama pants to his waist. He was getting better at it, but just like everything else, it took time. He already had the pants' legs up to his thighs; as he took in a breath, he lifted his right arm. Jerking his upper body to the left, he rolled to his side and shimmied the right side of his pants to his hip. He did the same maneuver with the left, forcing his body the other way and wiggling the pants upwards. 

Little victories. That's what Edie called them.

But Charles wasn't going to bed—there was too much to be done. He needed to inspect renovations completed that day, which was nearly impossible since he couldn't get to the second and third floors. But the first floor required so much more attention. The living room, kitchen and dining room were there, not to mention the entrances. He had a ramp installed for the front door, but not the back or sides. And the yard…the gravel pathways still needed to be paved over or he'd never see his lawn again. Even his motorized wheelchair had tantrums with the gravel.

There was also the school to consider. He had to get a teaching license from the state of New York and because he had graduated from Oxford, the international issue was becoming a process. Paperwork was piled up on his desk like miniature skyscrapers. 

Past midnight, and Charles had made his way into his study. The blue curtains were drawn from the windows; outside, the moon shimmered a diamond white. As he sat behind his desk, his teal green and gold lamp warmed his hands as he continued rummaging through his notes. He'd already skimmed through them twice that night, but he always caught more to revise with each passing. 

But the words were becoming blurry. His own writing was getting sloppy. With a shake of his head, Charles grabbed the cup of tea to his right and took a sip. He blinked until the focus returned and got back to his papers. 

"Charles?" a voice called from the study's entrance.

Raising his head, Charles spotted the blue, furry figure of Hank McCoy from the half-opened door. "Yes, my friend?" he said with a welcoming grin.

Hank entered, hesitantly shutting the door behind him. Charles' grin fell. 

"It's almost one in the morning," Hank said as he stopped in front of Charles' desk.

Furrowing his brow, Charles shook his pajama sleeve away from his wristwatch and gave a nod. "So it is. Is that relevant somehow?"

"Yeah…yeah, it is."

Charles studied his friend. The grim look on Hank's face made it clear this wasn't just about the late hour.

"We need to talk," Hank said as if he had something sour in his mouth.

Reluctantly, Charles lowered his pen to the desk. “All right.”

Hank’s expression didn’t relax at that; it held firm—a mix of determination and concern. A man ready for confrontation. 

_Splendid._

"This isn’t healthy, Charles,” Hank started and made a sweeping gesture to the desk and all its papers. “I know you’re working hard to build this school, but these long nights…they have to stop.”

Charles cleared his throat. “Don’t you think you’re exaggerating this just a touch?”

“No—no, not really. Look, I understand that Alex and Sean think you're okay—that you're doing great—but I'm…well—"

"You don't agree with them," Charles finished. As he stared at his friend, Charles finally released a breath a laughter. "Hank, I know you've been concerned about me. And I deeply appreciate the sentiment, but…" he sighed, "truth be told, I've been concerned about you. You haven't left the mansion since your transformation. You spend most of your time in the basement. Surely, we can find a better solution—"

"Stop. Don't do that, Charles."

Charles blinked. "Do what?"

"Don't flip this conversation around! We're not talking about me right now—we're talking about you."

"All right." Charles raised his hands. "I'm sorry. I just don't understand where all this is coming from."

Hank released a growl, the frustration on his face not cooling. "I've been watching you, okay? And at first, I was like Alex and Sean. I thought you were doing so well. You returned home with all these ideas for the school. You didn't even seem to care that Moira and Raven and Erik were gone. And your injury…” He gestured to Charles' wheelchair. “You act as if it's nothing—like none of it matters."

Charles closed his eyes for a second. "So, you're concerned about me because I'm not feeling sorry for myself?”

"I didn’t notice at first. But you never stop. You never take a break. You're always moving—either at the rehab clinic or here at home. Calling contractors, setting up everything, creating all these plans. You’re going to bed at two or three o'clock in the morning, and getting up at six." Hank frowned.

Charles tried to keep his face impassive. But inside, his heart was beating fast enough to pulsate through his temples. This was not the conversation he wanted to have at that moment—or _any_ moment, for that matter.

“Hank,” he finally said, “did you ever consider that I'm simply busy right now?"

"No. No, this has been going on since you returned home."

“I’ve been busy _since_ I returned home.”

Hank groaned. "Charles, studies have shown that if you don't get enough sleep, you could impair your concentration, your immune system—you could suffer depression, headaches, memory lapses—"

"So what do you propose? I don't believe now is a suitable time to take a holiday."

"Give Sean, Alex and me more responsibilities. We can do more than box up items and carry furniture around."

"Hank,” Charles released a sigh, “please—enough of this. I'm not sick or depressed, and my memory is just fine, thank you very much. I'm working on a thousand things right now because there are a thousand things that need to be done. I have to go to the rehab clinic each day because I still require physical therapy—"

"That's not what I meant—"

"I need to deal with the contractors and finish these countless renovations; neither Alex nor Sean know what all that entails, and you’re in no position to take up that task. I haven't seen the upper levels of my home in six months; I haven't been able to sleep in my own bedroom. Do you know how frustrating that is?"

Uneasily, Hank shifted his legs.

"Hank," Charles went on, softer now, "it's not that I'm trying to drown myself in work. But with everything that needs doing—my rehab, the renovations…not to mention transforming this place into a school and getting my license secured—there's simply not enough hours in the day."

With that, all of Hank's strength seemed to drain away. He slouched over, defeat cast on his features.

Charles gave his friend a reassuring smile. "You needn’t worry about me, Hank. Especially with everything you're dealing with right now, the last thing I want is for you to concern yourself with another person."

Head still lowered, Hank timidly motioned his hand to the paperwork in front of Charles. "Well, I still don't want you staying up all hours of the night anymore. Not when you’re getting up at five or six every morning."

"All right. If it means so much to you, I'll go to bed this instant."

Hank nodded. 

Charles waited a second to see if the other man would leave; when he didn't, Charles reluctantly extended a hand and pinched the chain to his desk lamp. Eyeing Hank, he tugged it down and the bulb flashed off. Only the bright, white moon from the window offered any illumination. With Hank beside him, Charles left his study and headed towards his room.

It took several minutes, but Charles finished his nightly routine. His catheter was soaking in a sterilizing solution; he had brushed his teeth. Rolling his wheelchair to his bed, he transferred onto the sheep skin laying on his mattress. As he rolled to his left, he grabbed a pillow and manually lifted his right leg. He wedged the cushion between his knees; just like the sheep skin, the pillow would reduce the chance of pressure ulcers. He drew his covers over the lower half of his body. 

"Would you mind closing the door, please?" Charles asked as he reached out to his nightstand and switched off the lamp.

Observing him from the bedroom's entrance, Hank grabbed the knob and eased the door shut. Lying in bed, Charles fixed his fingers to his temple. He sensed Hank trudge away, up the stairs to his own bedroom for the night.

With a roll of his eyes, Charles reached back and popped the light on again. He opened the nightstand's top drawer. Inside was a pile of documents—international licensing procedures and contracts he still hadn't read through entirely. Dumping the paperwork to the right side of his bed, Charles flipped to the page he'd stopped at previously and began to read.

Somewhere close to three in the morning, Charles' pupils stopped focusing. His mind couldn't process what he was reading. Closing his eyelids, Charles dropped his head to his pillow, his fingers still curled around the paperwork.

**End of Chapter**  



	7. Chapter 7

Just past six in the morning, and Charles was already out of bed. He had laid out his clothing for the day on his mattress, ready for him when he returned from the shower. Excluding stretches, his morning routine took at least three times longer than before his injury. Getting out of bed took longer; using the bathroom took longer. Taking a shower—all of it just had to take longer.

Each day, he got better at it.

Little victories. _Little_ , indeed.

Sitting on his shower bench, Charles sprayed his body with the hand-held showerhead. With his right hand, he laid his washcloth across his right thigh, and propping the showerhead with his left, began lathering up the cloth. Then, he scrubbed himself down. His upper body proved easy, almost as easy as before even with only one free hand. The lower part of him, of course, required further work. He grabbed his right ankle and draped the calf across his left thigh. He cleaned his leg from top to bottom, and then examined the skin. He had to inspect it regularly, making sure he wasn't developing a pressure ulcer somewhere. They were particularly bad at forming around boney areas like his knee or heel, his doctors had told him. 

He repeated the same procedure with his left leg, and then got to shaving his face. Thankfully, the bathroom had been one of the first things renovated in his home, but trying to shave in his wheelchair was tricky with the armrests in the way. He had a mirror mounted on the shower’s wall and took care of it with everything else.

He sprayed water into a small, metal bin hanging beside the mirror and then shut off the showerhead. Securing it on its hook, Charles retrieved his shaving foam and squirted some in his hand, its fragrance swiftly overpowering the bathroom.

He looked at himself in the mirror. 

His eyes were puffy, no doubt from his long nights. His skin had always been somewhat pasty and the winter certainly hadn’t helped, but even for that time of year, he appeared as pale as paper. He hadn't really been outdoors since last October.

Since Cuba.

Shaking his head, Charles laced his jaw line with foam. Wiping the white from his lips, he grabbed his razor and got to work. The tiny sprouts of hair across his face disappeared within a minute, and then in the metal bin, he used the water to clear off the remaining foam.

He reached up to put the razor back into its place—

The handle slipped. The tool dropped, first bouncing off his right thigh before sliding to the other side of the tub.

"Damn!" Charles exclaimed.

Instinctively, he bent down and reached out. That was useless, of course—the little black tool was far from his reach. With a groan, Charles straightened up. He glanced to his right at his assortment of shower supplies.

He snatched the showerhead off the wall. Dangling it from the hose, he leaned over and flicked it towards the razor. Once—twice…upon the third attempt, the end of the showerhead clipped the razor’s handle. The tool slid back across the tub and stopped by Charles’ right foot.

Huffing out a breath, he dumped the showerhead into the tub. He snatched up the razor and held back the temptation to snap the thing in two. He sat upright again. He took in some breaths. So much trouble for something so simple. But it wasn’t simple—not for him, at least.

Across his upper body, his skin began to cool. His anger began to calm. He stared at the razor—its sleek, black frame. The problem wasn’t the tool.

He peered down. The water was drying across his body; his arms were developing goosebumps. His legs wouldn't. 

With his free hand, Charles grabbed his right ankle and lifted it to his left thigh again. He traced his fingers across the limb as small droplets of water dribbled off his calf, adding to the puddle just underneath the bench.

His felt the tiny imperfections of his skin and the fine, brown hair. The strands shifted directions with each stroke. His fingers felt it—the warmth of his own body underneath them. But there was no sensation from his leg. 

Charles looked at the rest of himself. His left foot rested on the tub’s floor, slightly crooked with nothing there to hold it in place. His legs were far skinnier than they should have been; his penis was the only part of him that appeared ‘normal,’ but he knew the truth—it was as useless as the rest. 

From the waist down, his body was a void. A part of him and yet not. 

_Dead weight._

Holding the razor, Charles swiped the tool across his right ankle. The movement was swift; it was light. From his leg, there was no reaction, and for a second, Charles wondered if he’d even grazed it. On the skin, however, a thin white line materialized as if on its own. Then, a trickle of crimson surfaced, and Charles suddenly realized what he'd done.

"God," he muttered, a wave of disbelief streaming through his body. He snatched his washcloth from the wall. He pressed it on his ankle as more blood seeped out of him and mixed with the water on the ceramic flooring.

" _Stupid_ ," he said to himself.

Applying pressure to the wound, Charles leaned back until his head met the shower wall. The tiles were cool on his back. His goosebumps were gone.

He peered at himself in the mirror. His face was flushed. His pupils were glazed over; the puffy circles underneath had darkened, almost resembling black-eyes.

Charles turned away from himself. Opening the shower curtain to allow some cool air in, he held his ankle until the bleeding stopped.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

"What did you think about Hobson?" Edie asked as she held the back of Charles' wheelchair.

They had already finished his physical therapy for the day. Now, inside the center's fitness room, Edie was trying to teach him how to handle wheelies. 

"It wasn't a bad read," Charles said as the woman got him positioned next to a wooden platform meant to simulate a curb. "She certainly had some insightful thoughts on paraplegia. However, I have a difficult time taking advice from a woman named 'Elvira'."

Edie laughed as she always did. "Well, it's not like Dr. Hobson chose her name."

"Some women just aren't as lucky as you are, love." Charles threw a smile over his shoulder. 

Edie shook her head. "Yes, because 'Edith' really sends the boys a' runnin'."

"The smart ones."

She smiled at him, her beautiful auburn hair slipping from behind her ears and framing her face. Charles took in that image. But inside, his heart ached a little. It was just playful banter. A few months ago, he would have already asked Edie out for drinks or a nice dinner. He might have already slept with her, if he was lucky enough. 

How things changed so quickly.

"So," Edie continued, “did you want to borrow any more of my old textbooks?"

Charles brought his attention back to the girl. "Certainly."

"I've got some medical ones with a few chapters on spinal cord injury. Oh! David Griffith’s got a great book about paraplegia. And it's from Oxford." She nodded at him, her smile extending cheek-to-cheek as if she'd just offered him a chest full of gold.

Charles released a breath of laughter and nodded back.

He really appreciated all the girl's help. It was almost impossible to find a book about spinal cord injury at the public library. Edie had let him borrow almost a dozen of hers, and although some of the medical terminology threw him at times, he felt like he got the gist of them.

They also told him that at this point in his rehabilitation, he should be going through a grieving process. He should be depressed or angry or bargaining with God. They also told him he was asexual now. 

As Edie started to explain what he needed to do to perform a wheelie, she leaned over him, her chest pressing hard into his shoulder. 

God, his thoughts certainly weren't asexual.

"Do you see where your feet are resting a little unevenly on the footplates?" Edie explained. "You need to make sure they're as straight and secure as possible before you try pushing yourself over the curb. Otherwise, they might slip from the heel loop and—" Edie stopped herself.

Bending further over, she stared at Charles' legs as if they'd suddenly come back to life.

"Charles," she said, "you're bleeding."

"What?" Charles replied and looked down.

It was the razor cut from that morning. His gray sweat pants were stained with a streak of red.

"Oh, for God's sake," he mumbled, sheltering his eyes with his right hand.

He could already feel his face warming. Edie walked around his wheelchair to inspect the injury. She hiked up his pant's leg. Face still partially buried beneath his hand, Charles watched her.

"What happened?" Edie asked him.

"It's…it's nothing," Charles said and lowered his arm. "I was getting out of bed this morning. I—I must have scraped it against my mattress frame or the footplate, or something of the sort."

With or without telepathy, Charles was good at making people believe him. Sometimes, just the tone of his voice—or a quirky little joke or smile—got him exactly what he wanted. But a full-out lie, and one for something as idiotic as this, almost made him feel like he was vomiting the words. 

"Well, it doesn't look too bad," Edie said. "I'll go get a bandage—"

"What happened here?" a deeper woman's voice cut in.

Charles slouched his shoulders. God have mercy on him…this issue just wouldn't die.

"Charles hurt his leg," Edie explained as Katherine appeared from nowhere and knelt by his feet.

"Just now?" the older woman asked as she examined the wound. 

"No, at home," Edie said. "No worries—I'll go get the first aid kit." The girl bounced away.

Katherine picked up Charles’ ankle from his wheelchair, inspecting it. 

With that, Charles reached over. He pulled his leg from Katherine's grip and rested it on his thigh, keeping pressure on the razor cut. "It's nothing," he told her. “Simply an accident.”

Katherine tossed one more glimpse at the wound, then Charles, and then stood. "You need to be more careful. You might not feel your legs, but they're still a part of you. You hurt them and it could affect the rest of your body."

"Yes, I'm well-aware. Thank you."

The woman walked away. Back to her office—off to torture another patient—Charles didn't care. When Edie hustled back with the first aid kit, he sighed in relief. At least this had become one incident he could get through without being psychoanalyzed by everyone.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Closing time. From the outside, the Salem Outpatient Rehabilitation Center appeared quite luxurious. Stained glass windows bordered the doors; there were fountains stationed to the left and right. It was probably just as lavish on the inside, and Magneto wouldn't expect anything less. After all, his friend was one of the richest men on the planet. One issue Charles didn't have to fret over was medical expenses.

Standing on a hill fifteen or so yards from the edge of the parking lot with Emma and Azazel, Magneto waited. One final woman with gray and blonde hair exited the center’s doors; locking them, she headed for her car, stuffing a yellow piece of paper in her purse as she went. 

Magneto glanced to his right. He gave a single nod, and then Azazel’s hand settled on his shoulder. Both men disappeared into red.

An eyeblink later, Magneto stood inside the center’s lobby. With Azazel beside him, he headed towards the offices in the back. He passed patient rooms; examination beds were positioned by the doors, lightboxes for X-rays mounted on the walls.

Magneto’s chest tightened. 

With the exception of Mystique, all the other mutants considered Riptide’s plan a mundane task, about as complicated as shaking dirt off a rug. Magneto wished he lived is such blissful indifference. 

At the end of the hallway, Magneto found the office. He gripped the door knob—not even locked. He and Azazel entered. 

Immediately, they set to work. Magneto checked the file cabinet; from the desk, Azazel sifted through paperwork, and within seconds, the other man lifted a folder. Shutting the cabinet, Magneto took the file from the other man’s hand—Charles’ file.

Magneto skimmed through it. It read much differently than his CIA one, of course. The clinical director pointed out Charles condition in grand detail, noting specific progress and setbacks. Physical—mental…emotional. 

It had been six months since Charles' initial injury, but for something as traumatic as a severed spinal cord, he could still be in medical jeopardy. As Magneto continued scanning the file, however, one thing was certain. Charles' condition was stable. 

Magneto frowned. It was another word for permanent.

But it also meant that Charles was out of danger. Magneto didn’t know if that thought pleased or distressed him. But he knew what it meant for his band of mutants.

"So," Azazel said, "are you satisfied now?"

Tensing his fingers around Charles’ paperwork, Magneto replied, "Contact Riptide and Angel—make sure the modifications to the base are finished by this evening. We're moving forward."

  
**End of Chapter**   



	8. Chapter 8

_Hi, everyone. I wanted to thank you for the nice comments--I'm glad you're enjoying the story and how it's unfolding._

  
**Chapter 8…**   


The contractors had departed for the evening by the time the mansion's doorbell rang. Sitting in the living room with one of Edie's textbooks in his grasp, Charles glanced over his shoulder as Sean strolled into the foyer. The young man looked through the peep-hole and then shot a curious eye Charles' direction.

Placing his fingers to his temple, Charles focused. Through his telepathy, he spread his mind past Sean and to the person on the other side of the door. As he realized who it was, he slouched in his chair a little. Katherine Boggs was paying him a visit, it seemed.

Suddenly, he had the impulse to snap his fingers and make his entire home invisible to the woman. Realizing it was too late for such ideas, Charles telepathically called to Hank, making sure his friend was out of sight, and then nodded to Sean.

The young man opened the door.

Chin held high, Katherine asked for Charles immediately. Sean stepped out of the way and gestured a hand towards the living room. As Katherine's eyes found him, Charles offered her a smile.

"Katherine," he said as he began rolling into the foyer, "I didn't realize you made house calls."

"I don't, typically," she said as she took in the place. "I must say, Charles—I didn't think being a professor of genetics paid quite this well."

Charles snorted. "It doesn't, for certain. Actually, I'm not teaching quite yet. We're still renovating—this place is going to be a school eventually."

"Better use of space than a bachelor pad."

"Yes, I agree wholeheartedly."

There was a pause, and Katherine's gaze settled on him. That's when Charles realized the simple pleasantries were finished. "What can I help you with, Katherine?"

"I need to talk with you," she replied. "Alone."

And here it started. With a nod, Charles led Katherine away from Sean and the living room. With the woman's high heels clapping the hardwood, they past his bedroom, and reached his study. He wrestled with the door a second, and then he left it open for Katherine; passing through, she closed it.

"Care for a drink?" Charles asked.

"No, thank you," Katherine said as Charles rotated around to her and motioned his hand to a chair beside him. Sitting, the woman unwrapped her purse from around her shoulders and then withdrew a set of folded yellow papers.

She handed them to Charles. "This is a referral," she explained as Charles opened the paperwork, "for you to see a clinical psychologist twice a week until further notice."

Charles' gaze shot up at the woman. "What?"

"I want you to see a therapist," Katherine continued and then pointed to the papers. "The woman I've recommended works specifically with people with disabilities. She's very good."

Charles gawked at Katherine as if waiting for the punch-line. When she didn't say more, he released a breath of laughter. "I appreciate your concern, but I assure you," he extended his hand back to her with the paperwork, "it's completely unwarranted."

"This isn't a recommendation," Katherine said. "It's a requirement. If you want to continue being seen at my clinic, you have to visit with Dr. Berman or another psychologist of your choice until he or she says otherwise."

Any words Charles might have said got stuck in his throat. Slowly, he drew the papers back to himself.

After a few seconds, his mind caught up with him. He flashed a grin. "What is this about? Really, Katherine?"

"I'm sorry, Charles, but this is the way it has to be."

"You think I need therapy?"

"Yes."

Leaning back in his chair, Charles rubbed his hands down his face and let out a groan. This week was turning into a disaster.

"This isn't uncommon," Katherine explained. "Many people with spinal cord injuries—"

"For God's sake!" he snapped. "This is absurd—you realize that? Where is this even coming from?"

"It's been coming for awhile now," Katherine said. "Charles, you've been at my clinic for four months. And through all that time, I've never once seen you get frustrated or upset…or show any real emotion, to be frank. You make jokes of everything, and brush off even the most serious issues like they don't matter. You spend most of your time flirting with my support staff."

He arched an eyebrow. "Is—is that it? You're upset because of the teasing? I'm sorry if I offended someone, but I was just—"

"I'm not offended. And my staff are big girls. If they have a problem, they can come to me or talk with you directly. You're not the first patient who's hit on them, you know."

Charles shut his eyes. This was becoming more than absurd.

"In my office the other day," Katherine continued, "when I told you your diagnosis, I might as well have been reading a recipe in a cookbook. You smiled and joked like it was nothing."

"So I'm being punished because I'm not reacting the way you believe I should? Because I'm not overcome by grief?"

"I believe you are. I think you're in denial."

Charles hesitated. He stared at Katherine as she stared back like they were playing a game to see who would flinch first. After a minute, Charles narrowed his eyes at her. "You know, I've read quite a few books on this subject matter."

"I realize that. Edie told me you've borrowed most of her collection."

"And what I find most interesting is that—apparently—at this point in my rehabilitation, I should be utterly depressed or in utter denial." He frowned at her. "Don't you think that type of classification is dangerously simplistic for a whole group of people?"

"Actually, yes, I do. But, in your individual case, I think it's right. I think you're in denial. And I think you need help. And I know I'm not the only one who thinks that." She nudged her head towards the door behind her.

Considering, Charles set his jaw. "Hank," he muttered.

"He called me this morning. He says you're not sleeping. You're consuming yourself in work all hours of the day. You're stressed. About what I imagined already."

Squinting his eyes closed, Charles pinched the bridge of his nose like a headache was looming.

"I was going to say something about it at the clinic today, but then…" she trailed off. "I want to ask you something, Charles. And I want you to be honest with me."

Huffing out a breath, Charles turned back to the woman. "All right. What is it?"

"How did you get that cut on your leg?"

All the air escaped his lungs. As Charles gazed at Katherine, his face flushed like the skin was ready to blister.

"You did that to yourself, didn't you?" Katherine continued. "There's no sign of blunt trauma or bruising. The cut is fine and smooth." Her face darkened. "Was it a kitchen knife? A razor?"

Digging his fingers into his armrests, Charles averted his eyes from the woman. The irritation he had been feeling had mutated into something much worse. Suddenly, he felt as if he were sitting there naked, having her judge every imperfection his body now possessed.

After another minute, he finally found the will to open his mouth. "It's not what you think."

"I think you intentionally cut yourself."

"It wasn't like that."

"Charles, do you realize how serious that is?"

"I wasn't trying to harm myself!" he shouted. "God—I've done worse shaving."

Katherine studied him, her impassive expression suddenly very soft and caring. Sympathetic—pitying him. She leaned forward in her chair. "Why, then?"

He could hardly breathe. The air just wouldn't fill his lungs; it was hot and stale. He swallowed hard, and without looking up, began shaking his head. "I—I don't know," he exclaimed. "It was an impulse. It was stupid—I realize that. I realized that the moment I did it. I just…" He inhaled deeply, his chest burning.

"Did you think you'd feel something?"

"No!" He shouted and then paused. "I—I don't know. I wasn't thinking."

"I see." Katherine grabbed her chair and scooted it closer to him. She rested a hand on his right armrest.

"You know," she started, "every single patient I've met at the clinic has their own way of coping. It's always different. Some people—from the first day they're injured, they're grieving. They miss appointments and make up excuses why they didn't come. They can barely find the will to do the exercises. They're depressed and don't know how to get out of it."

The burning in Charles' chest seeped into his stomach.

"Others get angry," Katherine went on. "They get defensive. They blame the world—they blame God or themselves—anyone or anything they can. They shout and curse; they punch walls and throw things. And all of it so they can keep up that barrier between themselves and what's really going on. It's a defense mechanism."

Charles sighed. "I have a feeling there's a point somewhere in here."

"But not you. No, you have your own defense mechanism, and it's so clever, no one at my clinic even realizes you're doing it. Do you know what it is?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

On Katherine's face, a tiny smile emerged. "Charm."

Charles finally brought his gaze up to hers.

Katherine raised her eyebrows at him. "You're a very charming man, Charles. And you know it."

He rolled his eyes away.

"You love encouraging the patients, even my staff—making them feel better about themselves. Joking with them—flattering them—taking on their problems, so that way, you won't have to face any of your own."

"God, you're a most insufferable woman."

Katherine didn't even flinch at that. "Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way—not for anyone. There are some people that manage to pull through more smoothly than others. Not everyone is depressed or angry. But no one—not one person who has lost what you have lost—can get through this by pretending like nothing's changed…no matter how charming they are."

With that, Katherine stood. She wasn't a tall woman, but from Charles' wheelchair, she might as well have been a giant.

"I've already called Dr. Berman and told her about you," she explained. "If you have a problem seeing a woman psychologist, then you can look elsewhere. But by the beginning of next week, I expect you to be scheduled with someone. And I want records of it."

Charles lifted his fingers to his left temple. It would be so simple. He could creep into her mind; he'd make her forget about Hank's phone call and the cut on his leg. He could take away all the suspicion she'd ever had of him and be done with it.

But as he connected his mind to hers, the woman's emotions poured through him, and he nearly lost his breath. There was so much compassion and determination…and misery. She hated doing this. She hated having to tell him these things, to see his distress as her words struck him. She'd rather be anywhere else than having this discussion.

With that, Charles retreated from her mind, and dropped his hand back down to his lap.

"You understand everything we've talked about here?" Katherine asked.

Charles gave a nod.

"Then, I expect to see you tomorrow morning with Edie. Let me know when you have everything set up." With those words, Katherine Boggs headed out of Charles' office, her graying blonde hair swaying with each step as she disappeared down the hall.

  
**End of Chapter**   



	9. Chapter 9

Almost midnight, and everyone else had gone to bed. Charles didn't particularly worry about Hank scolding him for staying up late; after Katherine left, it only took one glare from Charles before the other man lolled upstairs and out of his sight. Charles hadn't seen him the rest of the evening.

On Charles' desk, papers were scattered, covering the polished oak like a coat of white paint. Everything from contractor bills and estimates…to licensing contracts and Charles' thick mountain of notes and outlines. His plans for the school. His ideas for the future. Five of Edie's textbooks were stacked on the right corner.

Charles had tried to concentrate all evening. His red pen laid between the desk lamp and telephone, ready for him to snap back into focus and get some work done. He was good at that. No concern in his life had ever burrowed deep enough to leave a scar.

But he did have a scar now—a thumb-sized blemish on his back that appeared so much more inconsequential than the damage it had actually done.

His eyes had remained blurry all evening. He couldn't remember a thing he read.

Past midnight, and Charles wheeled away from his desk and into the kitchen. Food and dishes were still in disarray from the renovations, cluttering the countertops. On the kitchen table, he uncovered a bottle of scotch. He grabbed a glass mug, and then popped some ice from his new fridge. He reeled around to leave—

He stopped. With the glass and bottle straddled between his legs, he gazed at the kitchen's entrance. He remembered this moment. He had been there months before, by the fridge in the dull evening's glow. Except, instead of peering at an empty doorway, a slender, blue figure had been standing in it. Completely naked, staring at him.

Charles rested his head on the refrigerator's door. He thought he knew everything. He thought he knew everyone. Especially Raven. The girl he had taken in and cared for. His sister.

She was gone now because he hadn't really known her—not really. And that was his fault. With all his power, he didn't bother to notice what was really going on. He didn't even need telepathy for that; he could have just listened.

_"You know, Charles, I used to think it'd be you and me against the world. But no matter how bad the world gets, you don't want to be against it, do you? You want to be a part of it."_

Charles rolled out of the kitchen, and back to his study. There, he pulled out more forms and books and anything else he could unearth, and then spent the next hour emptying his bottle. The words typed and handwritten alike didn't get much clearer, but he started to care less whether or not they did.

Behind his desk, Charles sipped at the glass of scotch, now void of ice, and felt it singe his throat. The pain felt good—refreshing. It reminded him he could feel something and he took another swig.

Then, in the silent room, with the lamp's light the only illumination within the dark, Charles reached over to the edge of his desk. He lugged his telephone in front of him and lifted the receiver. Using the rotary dial, he scrolled in each digit. The dial tone shifted from a flat hum to a ring.

On the other end, an answer.

"Hello?" the sleepy voice of Moira MacTaggert resonated in Charles' ear.

It was soft, comforting—lovely. He held his breath.

"Hello?" she called again, this time a touch more alert.

Pressing the receiver firmly against his ear, Charles opened his mouth. The words burned his tongue—a thousand different ones ready to explode out of him.

Then, through the phone, there was a pause. Charles couldn't hear Moira's breathing anymore, like she was as frozen as he was in that instant.

And then, the woman's soft voice whispered, "Charles?"

He slipped the phone away from his ear. He rested it back on its base.

Sitting at his desk, Charles stared at nothing. No paperwork. No plans for the future. It was just him there, in an empty, dark room—alone.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Magneto waited. Usually, he didn't mind biding his time, but the longer he peered in the distance at Charles' Westchester mansion, the more it felt as if he had swallowed a handful of glass.

Alone, he sat on top of the satellite dish almost a mile away. The early spring's frigid air stung his skin; dew coated every piece of metal surrounding him. The smell of winter still hinted in the breeze. Further away, Azazel and Emma waited as well, but Magneto needed to handle this himself. He needed to make sure everything went right.

Kneeling on the satellite dish's platform, Magneto surveyed the light from the mansion's study as it refused to darken. He was too far away to see anyone inside, but Magneto knew his friend was there. He felt the little movements of metal. A sway of the lamp cord. The repositioning of the telephone. Charles' wheelchair.

It wasn't until close to three in the morning that the light finally dimmed. Magneto felt metal rolling away from the window and into the hallway. It halted by a door just a few feet from the study. The room's light sparked on.

Magneto concentrated. Charles rolled into another small room connected to his, and minutes trudged by. The wheelchair finally exited, pulled up next to a metal frame—a bed—and then the lights flashed off.

From the back of the satellite, Magneto dropped. He allowed the dish's magnetic field to flow through him, slowing him as he descended. Seconds later, his feet met grass with as much ease as stepping off a set of stairs. He began to walk.

With his helmet tight on his head, Magneto hiked through the acres that made up Charles' backyard. The trees were just starting to awaken from winter, green creeping back on the bark. Magneto maintained his focus on Charles' window, and as he drew closer, his heart pounded with more conviction. Without his helmet, Magneto would never get further than Charles' gravel driveway without being detected. With it, he still wondered if his telepath friend could detect something—a void, a presence—a _shift_ within his psychic plane.

It took a few more minutes to reach the mansion. The home appeared just as beautiful at night as it did during the day. A palace. Charles had grown up there. He had been nurtured and cared for, with every luxury at his fingertips. But Magneto didn't begrudge his friend for that. It was just a matter of luck, really. And luck had a tendency to sour.

A ramp had been installed beside the stairway to the front doors. Magneto walked up the steps and grabbed the doorknob. The metal heard his call; there was a _click_. The door opened without protest.

Inside, the foyer was dark. There were boxes piled up beside the stairway labeled "dormitories." In the living room, furniture had been rearranged and the large European rug was missing. Passing the foyer, Magneto stepped to the left. The place was quiet—peaceful. Everyone was sleeping. No one considered a threat would stroll through the doors.

If Magneto truly was such a thing. He wasn't there to harm anyone. He certainly had no intention of harming his friend. He just needed to get him away. He simply needed his help.

Reaching the door to Charles' bedroom, Magneto pulled a small bottle from his jacket's pocket. Its glass appeared almost black in the darkened mansion. With his other hand, he retrieved a small, beige cloth and gripped it within his fingers. It was time.

Within his magnetic grasp, the doorknob twisted. The door eased open and Magneto entered. The room was filled with Charles' old bedroom furniture. Everything was nicely laid out as it had been upstairs. Pictures of loved ones rested on the chest of drawers. A chess board was set in the middle of the bookshelf, covered by textbooks and paperwork. In the open closet, suits hung from a railing re-positioned at a much lower height.

In the center of the room, Charles lay in his bed, his breathing quiet. Magneto waited a second to see if Charles noticed him, but with his helmet on, it seemed Magneto was like an invisible man to the telepath's mental eye. Slowly, he walked forward and reached the side of Charles' bed.

From there, his friend appeared almost exactly the same as he had the last time he and Magneto had been in the mansion. Lying on his back with his hands on his chest, Charles slept. His hair was a little unkempt; his face possessed some scruff from the day. He looked a little thinner, a little more pale—like someone recovering from the flu and nothing more.

Beside the bed, however, things were different. Sitting on the nightstand was a bottle of scotch, the last remnants of liquid at its base. A glass rested next to it. Just inches away was a cluster of tiny, orange bottles—prescriptions. Pain killers. Muscle relaxers. _Take as needed._

In front of the nightstand sat Charles' wheelchair, its silver rims glinting from the small trace of moonlight that peeked through the curtains behind the bed. Timidly, Magneto closed a hand around one of the armrests.

The glass-stabbing pain inside his stomach suddenly wracked through his entire body. Magneto stifled a breath; he had the sudden impulse to back away.

But there was no turning back. His band of mutants had made a decision—he had made a decision. There was no other option.

Magneto slid the wheelchair away from the bed. He stepped between it and Charles, and then opened his gloved hand. The beige cloth spread out in his palm. He lifted the glass bottle, unscrewing the cap. He had to move quickly; the smell alone could wake the dead.

Pressing the cloth over the bottle's opening, Magneto shook them together. The liquid seeped into the fabric, its sweet smell overwhelming his nostrils. He watched Charles.

His friend groaned. His eyelids twitched.

Closing the bottle, Magneto pocketed it. He gazed at Charles as the other man continued waking, and then brought the cloth towards his friend's face—

As if on its own, Magneto's free hand reached out. It grabbed onto the other man's left wrist, gently shaking it.

"Charles," Erik whispered.

With that, Charles Xavier opened his eyes. He peered up. As his gaze found Erik's, his expression snapped to attention. Both men froze in place. There was only a mild curiosity on Charles' features, as if he was wondering if he was really awake.

Then, his gaze dropped to the cloth in Erik's hand.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Erik assured him.

Charles brought his eyes back to Erik's. The curiosity in them had given way; now, a mixture of emotions brewed—fear, anger…sadness. Charles set his jaw. And then, wrenching his body towards the other side of the bed, he reeled away. His hand slid from Erik's.

He couldn't escape—they both knew it.

But Charles didn't let that type of logic stop him.

Planting a knee on the edge of the bed, Magneto grabbed Charles' right arm and forced him back around. It was easy, far easier than he'd expected. Charles' struggled with him, his arms lashing back at Magneto's. His friend shouted and tried to grab at the helmet. But Charles' legs remained under his covers. Not moving….never waking.

"Stop!" Magneto pleaded. "There's no need for this, Charles!"

From outside the room, Magneto felt _shifts_ in the mansion. Doorknobs turning—doors bursting open. Either the other mutants had heard Charles shouting, or the telepath had managed to focus his mind and call for help.

Either way, time had run out.

Pushing Charles' left arm away, Magneto pressed the damp cloth onto his friend's face. The other man closed his eyes; he held his breath. His arms continued thrashing, but there was no direction.

"Breathe," Magneto told him. "Just _breathe in_ , Charles."

Footfalls thundered across the downstairs foyer. Without peeking up, Magneto grabbed onto the metal in the bedroom—the chest of drawers, the quilt chest—anything littered with nails or hinges—and commanded them towards the room's entrance. With a burst of energy, the furniture rocketed across the bedroom. It crashed into the door just as a hand slammed into its surface. _Bang!—bang!—bang!_

"Charles!" Hank McCoy's beastly voice screamed.

Magneto kept his attention on his friend. Charles' hands gripped to Magneto's sleeves. But there was no more fight in them. His friend's gaze held to Magneto's as he slowly began breathing into the cloth. Then, Charles' pupils glazed over. Any consciousness disappeared like a flame between two fingers.

Magneto didn't waste anymore time. Ripping the helmet from his head, he dropped it to Charles' wheelchair. He pocketed the man's meds. Outside the room, the banging had escalated into deafening _booms_ —the door splintered. All three young men were shouting.

Just a few more seconds.

Beside Magneto, there came a flash of red—Azazel.

From the other side of Charles' door, a sonic boom erupted. The door burst into fragments, the furniture in front of it tossed back into the room by several feet. It stopped in pieces at the end of the bed frame.

Magneto pulled Charles from his bed. The unconscious man weighed barely anything, his legs feeling like sticks underneath Magneto's grip.

With his claws, Hank tore the rest of the door apart and got into the room.

But it was too late.

As Azazel placed a hand on Magneto and the other on Charles' wheelchair, the three men vanished, leaving only a burst of red fog in their wake.

**End of Chapter**


	10. Chapter 10

His mind was submerged in fog. Within it lingered a calm serenity—the moment between sleep and waking where no worries could pry their way inside and no nightmares could surface. He liked it there. But it couldn't last.

As a voice penetrated Charles' ears, the fog began to clear. His eyelids opened. Above him, someone was speaking. Bit by bit, Charles' vision found some clarity and then, like a lightening bolt to the brain, the image before him morphed into something real.

"Wake up," Erik said. "It's all right, my friend."

Lying on his back, Charles jerked upwards. The movement was clumsy—his lower abdomen had become weakened due to his injury and his mind was still reeling in a dozen separate directions. He started to drop back down. Erik's hands reached out; he grabbed Charles' arms before he had a chance to tumble over.

"It's okay," Erik told him as he got Charles into a sitting position. "It's just me here. You're safe."

Gasping, Charles swept his gaze across the room. The image was chaotic, blended together only as blots of colors and shadows. Gray walls—beige floor—lights suspended above. Further away, the room darkened like a cave. Everything else was blurred into the walls. As if by reflex, Charles tried to jerk his arms from Erik's grip.

"Just calm down," Erik said. "I need you to stay calm now."

But Charles didn't want to stay calm. A deep ache pulsated through his skull and down his back. He stomach churned as if ready to expel up his throat. He clasped to Erik's arms, holding tight like he was clinging to the edge of a cliff. His fingernails dug in.

Erik winced. "That's…unnecessary, Charles."

"You—" Charles shut his eyelids, begging for enough focus to speak. "What—what do you…think you're doing, Erik?"

Both men stared at each other. As the seconds passed, Charles' mind continued clearing; little details emerged. He was sitting on a bed. Ivory sheets cloaked him from the waist down. Erik was planted on the left edge, his legs dangling over the side. His friend wore black pants, a bright red shirt, and some sort of purple cape. On his head rested Shaw's helmet, now as colorful as the rest of him.

Charles didn't know what it was—perhaps the drugs and alcohol still toying with his mind—but as he peered at his old friend, a breath of laughter somehow rolled up his throat.

Erik gave him a look like he'd gone mad.

"What—what is this?" Charles grabbed the edge of Erik's cape and shook it.

A trace of amusement crossed Erik's features. Grabbing the fabric, he gently slid it away from Charles' care.

"You're fine," Erik said. Releasing Charles' arms, the other man studied him, obviously waiting for him to make the next move.

Charles turned back to the room. The image was clearer now. The place was constructed into one large, open area. To the far right was a small kitchen equipped with a refrigerator, dark brown cabinets, and an elegant dining room set. Pipes crossed the tall ceiling. By the corner was a metal door that looked as if it was pulled from a submarine. To the left, living room furniture was cramped in the corner, obviously moved aside to make room for the bed Charles was currently resting on. There was a moon-shaped sofa with a shimmery, velvet fabric and a leather Overman couch just across from it. Above, crystal lights hung down like glowing icicles.

His head still pounded like he was experiencing the worst hangover on the planet, but as Charles took in the luxury, he still raised his eyebrows at the other man. "You don't get to…poke fun at my wealth anymore."

Erik glanced at the room and grinned. "I see your point."

"What am I doing here, Erik?"

With that, Erik averted his eyes away; his smile dropped. "That's a long conversation," he said, "one we don't need to get into until you're in a right state of mind."

"I'm right enough."

"Your eyes are dilated and you're slurring your words. I don't think you'll even remember this conversation."

"Then, repeat it again later. I want—I want to know the purpose of all this. Why have you brought me here?"

Even with that helmet cloaking most of Erik's head, Charles noticed the man's reluctance. Just as quickly as it came, however, the soft expression on Erik's features hardened. A new face emerged, and as Charles gazed upon it, his back ached. It was the face Charles had seen on the beach six months before. The same one that had shot dozens of missiles towards the American and Soviet ships, intending to massacre thousands of men. A cool, quiet anger. Deep—unyielding. Unstoppable.

Charles frowned.

With that, Erik nodded to the dark side of the room. "There," he said.

Charles looked back at the darkness. Past the frilly carpet and polished marble walls, he examined the deep, black opening. It was sectioned off from the rest of the room by a simple strip of metal fencing, crossing from the left side to the right like a gate put up to trap a canine. Behind it, machines lined the wall, side-by-side and shut off. The area itself was large—much taller than the rest of the room. Hollowed out—spherical…

As the realization struck, Charles had to drop his hands to the bed to steady himself. The haziness and nausea from just minutes before rushed back. But now the drugs and alcohol weren't the culprits.

"Erik," Charles barely managed to sputter out, "what…what do you want—"

"I think you know," Erik said, his voice quiet but stern.

Suddenly, Charles felt as if his insides were rotting. Erik had reconstructed Cerebro. There was only one purpose for such a device; he wanted to find other mutants. He wanted to recruit them—for his army.

A lump constricted Charles' throat. He felt the word sear his tongue, but as he opened his mouth, he knew he had to say it. "No," he whispered.

Erik inhaled deeply. "This isn't up for discussion, Charles. You're the only one who can work that machine. As soon as you give us some valid coordinates, I'll take you home."

"Us? You mean…your band of mutants."

"Yes."

Charles swallowed hard. "No, Erik. I can't help you do this. I'm sorry."

Erik didn't even flinch. "There's no one else. Emma can't handle Cerebro—either because she's not powerful enough or because her telepathy is simply different from yours—it doesn't matter. She can't use it."

Emma Frost. Erik had rescued her from the CIA; Charles wondered if the other man would eventually do so.

"I'm sorry your new telepath isn't working out for you," Charles said with a touch of sarcasm, "but that doesn't mean I'm going to help build you an army."

"You're the only other telepath we know. So that puts us in a delicate situation."

Charles shook his head. "I already gave you my answer."

On those words, Erik jerked away from the bed. His back turned, he surveyed the room as if looking at Charles at that instant would drive him over the edge. After a few seconds, he said, "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're out in the middle of nowhere, Charles. On an island, alone." He tossed a glance over his shoulder. "I'm not certain exactly how far your telepathy can reach, but I imagine three hundred miles is pushing it."

A shiver jostled up Charles' back.

Erik remained unmoved. "You're going to use that machine, Charles. You're going to help us. Or you're not going anywhere."

Erik put a hand in his pocket. He dug out an assortment of orange bottles, and then set them on the bed. But he didn't stop there. Beside the bed, one of the living room's end tables sat—Charles' wheelchair next to it. Fishing through one of the table's drawers, Erik brought out a notepad and pen. He extended them to Charles. Timidly, Charles accepted them, keeping his eyes to Erik.

"Write down what you need," Erik explained. "Medicine—medical equipment. Clothing. Try to keep it simple. I have a feeling you're going to be staying here for awhile."

With that, Erik stepped away. Walking towards Cerebro, he flung his hand and the metal fencing parted at its center. As soon as he was through, the fence came back together the same way it had split, the metal wires linking to one another like laces to a shoe.

Then, Charles' old friend was gone, out a large metal door at the back of Cerebro, his purple cape flowing behind him as he left.

**End of Chapter**


	11. Chapter 11

_Sorry for the delay; I couldn't get the website to come up for awhile. Here's chapter 11!_

**Chapter 11**

Hank McCoy was a smart guy. It was the one thing he was certain about—he could analyze problems and uncover solutions. As he stood in the center the debris that had been Charles' bedroom, however, not one solid hypothesis would surface.

Erik had kidnapped Charles. Hank had heard Charles' telepathic call for help. So had Alex and Sean. None of them made it there in time.

Charles' physical therapy clinic had already called several times already, inquiring about missed appointments. With each call, the woman on the other end sounded more displeased; she insisted Charles needed help.

Closing a hand around the end of Charles' bed frame, Hank released a small growl. Erik had entered their lives at the least opportune time. How wonderful it would be to offer the other man the same inconvenience.

"Hank," Sean called from the bedroom's entrance, "any luck yet?"

Tapping his claws on the bed frame, Hank sniffed the air. It wasn't the first time he'd done so over the last two days. He didn't recognize the scent, but it was sweet. And strong. And he knew whatever it had been, it had rendered Charles unconscious within seconds.

Chloroform was the only practical conclusion.

It still didn't answer the real question here—why on earth would Erik abduct Charles in the first place?

Stepping away from the bed frame, Hank walked to the only other piece of furniture that hadn't been demolished by Erik's powers or Sean's sonic scream—the nightstand. Charles' medications were missing, leaving only the lamp and an empty bottle of scotch on the oak surface.

Dropping to the edge of bed, Hank snatched up the bottle.

Sean wandered into the room. Making his way to Hank's side, he reached out and took the bottle from him. "I thought he was doing all right, you know. I mean, he seemed like he was doing all right, all this time."

Hank sighed. "That's what he wanted you to believe."

Brushing a hand across his furry blue head, Hank studied the room again. Other than the trace of chloroform in the air, Erik had left no other clues. He hadn't even busted the front door to the mansion; he simply twisted the lock with his mind like he didn't want to inconvenience anyone.

Shaking his head, Hank stood. He turned towards the door to leave—a light caught him. It was tiny, like a weak flashlight that was barely capable of clearing any darkness away. A nightlight, glimmering inside Charles' bathroom.

Hank twisted back around. He stepped beside the bathroom's door, and crept it open. Inside, the room was completely altered for Charles' needs. A shower bench sat in the tub; the cabinets under the sink were gone. Latex gloves rested behind the toilet and grab bars were installed on the walls.

To the right was a small linen closet. Hank opened it. Inside was an array of medical equipment—catheters, medicine bottles, disinfectant solution, and other items Charles required.

"What is it?" Sean asked as he peeked inside.

Hank stared at all the items. Charles needed each one. He needed them everyday. Most people wouldn't think of that. Not even someone as clever as Erik.

"We need to start doing a search," Hank finally said as he faced Sean.

The other man tipped his head like Hank was trying to communicate through hand signals.

"Of what?" the other man finally asked.

Hank motioned his head to the linen closet. "Medical supplies. Medicine—equipment. All bought on the same day. Everything someone would need if they suddenly had a paraplegic guest staying at their house."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

In the distance, the island base was just a speck in the ocean. Magneto stood on the foredeck of the _Cassandra_ —one of Shaw's older yachts where he and his band of mutants had relocated—peering out. The Pacific Ocean appeared as wide as the sky above it. The day was sunny, warm and ungodly humid. The ocean breezed whiffs of salt into the air. If someone had been watching him and his fellow mutants, they'd assume they were vacationing.

The only contrast to that image was the bulky red helmet on Magneto's head. Underneath it, Magneto's expression was set in stone. His eyes were as sharp as razors. Tensions were high that day, as the day before it. The other mutants were waiting to see what Charles would do…or _not_ do.

Everyone was already sick of the latter.

Magneto had visited his old friend several times already. He had gotten Charles the items he needed—shirts, pants, a sheet of sheep skin, catheters, and other items Magneto would have never considered. Charles also wanted a wristwatch, but Magneto refused that. Taking away a sense of time would better motivate his friend to get this nonsense over with.

Underneath him, the _Cassandra_ rocked gently to and fro. Such a peaceful moment—a shame it couldn't last. Throwing a look to the bright red man stationed at the yacht's helm, Magneto gave a nod.

With that, the other man vanished into fog. He materialized a heartbeat later beside Magneto. And then both men disappeared, leaving the other mutants to bake in the sun.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

At the base's dining room table, Charles kept his fingers to his temple. His left arm was tired, his hand almost numb. He had been sitting that way for hours, stretching his telepathy as far as it could reach and trying to snag onto something out in the world.

Unfortunately, the world was a void. He might as well have been on the moon, trying to wave back to Earth and hoping someone would spot him.

The only exception was a single ship floating a few miles away. But it was Erik's ship and Emma Frost was onboard. Charles couldn't even get a read on the others mutants there—if there were any. Every time he tried, it was like a glass door being shut in his face and all he could see through it was her.

Charles shook his head. Not powerful enough to handle Cerebro—he doubted that.

There was a _shift_. It flashed near the outskirts of the island, and as soon as Charles felt it, he shot out his telepathy. It only took him a millisecond to find the source. Before he could lock on, however, the presence was gone.

With a groan, Charles dropped his arm to the table.

Azazel.

The teleporter was fast—just a touch faster than Charles' telepathy—and it was always random. Sometimes, he teleported just fifty feet from the base and others, as fas a quarter mile where the island met ocean. Making certain Charles didn't catch a pattern, it seemed.

Despite where the teleporter landed, there was only one reason he visited the island at all. He was transporting Erik. On that thought, Charles straightened up. He threw a look at the base's entrance.

He waited.

As the base's door opened by itself several minutes later, Charles tensed in his chair like someone was approaching him with a needle. Cape gliding behind him, Erik stepped inside, and then the door shut with a _clap_ of metal against stone.

The other man found Charles, and, under his helmet, he snorted. "Exactly where I left you," Erik commented and marched up the stairs. The metal fencing separated, and linked together as he passed. "Still trying to use your telepathy, I've been told. I would point out that it's a waste of effort, but…" he sighed as he sat at the table, "I don't think you'd listen to me." Reclining, Erik pulled out a box of candy and popped one in his mouth. Spearmint whiffed through the air.

Charles glared at him, his teeth clenched together.

Erik only grinned at that. "You don't pull off _menacing_ well, my friend. Perhaps if you had red skin or beastly teeth—"

"Take me home, Erik."

"Are those the only four words you know?"

"Take me home _now_ , Erik."

"That's not any better."

The men locked eyes. Without lifting his hand, Charles focused his telepathy towards Erik's helmet. If he could simply find a chink in that armor—

"Stop doing that," Erik said as he brought another mint to his lips.

Charles blinked. "What?"

"Stop trying to reach my mind. I recognize that look, Charles. If Emma can't penetrate this helmet after six months, I imagine you won't figure it out anytime soon."

With that, Charles stopped concentrating and huffed out a breath. Both men grew silent again. Leaning back, Erik rolled the candy around in his mouth and tried to act as if he had all the time in the world.

His expression greatly contrasted the one he had sported when Charles first refused to use Cerebro. It was like flipping a switch, and with that thought, a touch of anxiety jabbed Charles' gut. Erik wouldn't intentionally harm him, but what Charles considered harmful might not match Erik's definition. As much as he hated to admit it, Erik possessed the control.

On that thought, Charles lowered his gaze to the table. "How's Raven?" he asked.

Erik stopped popping mints. After a second, he replied, "She's fine, Charles. She's grown up quite a bit these last few months."

"Does she know I'm here?"

Again, Erik hesitated. He dumped the box of candy to the table, looking as if he was considering something. Then… "No. She doesn't."

"Why? You think she'd disapprove?"

"I believe she would."

"Doesn't that tell you something?"

Erik smirked. "It tells me that she still needs to learn that not everything in life is as simple as right and wrong."

"And yet, here's a perfect example of it," Charles said. "Bringing me here against my will is _wrong_ —taking me home this instant would be _right_. Simple, yes?"

"You would like to think that, wouldn't you?"

"I already know that, Erik."

The other man shook his head; the conversation was over. Erik leaned back in his chair again, and brought his eyes to Charles again. They were the same eyes Charles recalled from the weeks before Cuba. Strong. Determined. But angry. And under that anger, Charles knew, lingered a deep, icy pain—almost as old as the man himself and just as intense as his cool, sharp stare.

Charles' heart sank a little. There was so much potential—so much more to Erik than the man even knew about himself. But he believed he was simply a weapon now, only as good as any other weapon and only capable of the same talent. Destruction.

And yet Erik just sat there, gazing at him.

If Erik was just a weapon—just set out for his own conquests—then he wouldn't be sitting at all. He would have dragged Charles to the other side of the room. He would have strapped Cerebro on his head and activated the machine like he was switching on a lamp. He would have tortured Charles until he complied.

Instead, Erik simply sat, waiting.

On that thought, the fear inside Charles soothed some.

Erik remained at the base the rest of the day. Neither man said hardly more than two words to each other, permitting the tension to cool, letting the slight hum of the lights above offer the only sound as the hours passed and daylight shifted to darkness.

**End of Chapter**


	12. Chapter 12

Day four. At least, that was the best guess Charles could venture. There were no windows in the base. No clocks hung on the walls; Charles could only keep track of day and night with the glimmer of sunlight that crept through the bottom of the door behind Cerebro. 

Any televisions or radios had been removed—books as well. It appeared Erik and his band of merry mutants didn't want Charles distracted by such things.

It was evening, and Charles inspected the chain-link fence surrounding Cerebro. The barrier was eight feet high—the heavy-duty type Charles imagined around prison yards. At the bottom, the fence wasn’t even connected to the floor; with all that weight, it didn't need to be.

If Charles could walk, he’d just climb the damn fence. He could use Cerebro on his own, searching for Hank, Alex and Sean’s minds. He had never telepathically communicated using the machine, but if he could locate mutants, then given practice—

By the fencing, Charles rubbed the bridge of his nose. It wasn’t an option. Escaping through the base’s door wasn’t an option. He was stuck there until Erik came to his senses…

…or decided that building a mutant army was more important than Charles’ displeasure.

If he was hooked up to Cerebro, could Charles even _prevent_ himself from locating mutants? The machine broadened his telepathy across the world; trying not to find others like him was like asking someone to open their eyes but not to _see_. 

Rolling his wheelchair beside the fence, Charles reached the edge of the open archway. He examined where the fence met marble. The wires had been jabbed into the stone like someone had hammered them into place. Near the bottom, a single little wire stuck out from the wall as if mocking him.

_Dammit, Erik._

It was past one in the morning before Charles got to bed. As the next hour dragged by, however, he lay with his eyes peering upwards, the base suddenly very quiet and very empty. Too quiet—too empty. Only the pipes above the kitchen and the lights in the living area offered any sounds at all, and it was just a continuous soft humming in his ears. With a flash of irritation, Charles snatched up the pillow underneath his head and flattened it against his face. 

Not more than twenty feet from the base's entrance, there came a _shift_. Charles jerked the pillow away; he focused. The teleporter was gone, of course, before Charles had a chance to lock on. But the shift—the presence—remained. A mind.

Charles sat up. 

It wasn't Erik. No, this mind sensed his presence the same instant he felt it. It was cold and rigid, but also contained a type of amusement within its core of glistening crystals and intensity. 

Emma Frost.

Charles brought his attention to the door. Seconds later, the metal slab opened and the diamond woman stepped inside. Although the spherical room was dark, her crystal body gleamed in the faint lights still illuminating the rest of the base, exhibiting a spectrum of colors.

She approached the fencing and then closed her fingers around the wires.

"He has you caged in here pretty well, doesn't he?" she said and flashed a smile.

Charles didn't smile back.

The woman lifted a hand. She plucked at the wiring close to her head, the metal snapping as she went. Creating an opening just large enough to fit through, she grabbed the top of it. Then, with the ease of a gymnast flipping on a mat, she slid her body through, the jagged wires not leaving a scratch.

On his bed, Charles frowned as the woman approached him. Would Erik send Emma? He had said repeatedly that Charles needn’t worry about the others. No, she had come on her own accord. 

A shiver ran up Charles’ back. He could fend off a telepathic attack; after all, such a move would require that Emma enter his mind where his senses were the strongest. But she didn't need telepathy to harm him. In her crystal form, she could kill or torture him with just a few swipes of her fingers. 

"Why the long face, sugar?" she asked as she sat on the edge of his bed. 

Charles squared his jaw. "I'm not working that machine for you. So you can do with that as you wish."

"Oh, that's not very nice," Emma said, her voice resonating within her diamond lips. "I know Erik has been pestering you for days now. I thought we could have a little talk. Just you and me." Her eyes sparkled a little.

"I believe I'll pass this time, if you don't mind." Charles nudged his head towards the base's door. 

Emma stood back up. "I don't think you want to do that. I have something I want to say to you, but first… " She nodded at herself. “I assume you won't try anything if I turn back to blonde?"

Even if she was weaker in her human form, Emma could change back to diamonds the instant Charles went on any telepathic assault. Reluctantly, he nodded. 

With that, Emma's crystals lost their luster. Shifting from glass and then snowy white, her body finally transformed back into its human form. It was then Charles realized exactly what angle the woman was playing. Standing by his bed, Emma Frost wore only white lingerie. Similar to the one she was dressed in at the Russian compound, the two-piece had the slightest touch of ruffles around her bra and the bottom of her undergarments. Stockings were attached to a garter belt that fit her waist just perfect.

Charles sucked in a breath. He opened his mouth, but the words stuck.

Emma didn't hesitate. Placing a hand on his right shoulder, she pressed down until he was lying on his back. She got on top of him, straddling his waist. Her legs held firmly to his sides, her thighs hot against his body. 

"Like I was saying," she went on, "I have something I want to say to you. And I have a feeling you'll want to listen."

Charles remained still.

Emma smiled down at him. "Just consider something for a moment. Two telepaths. With our abilities, imagine what we could do for one another. Or to one another." She leaned closer; her lips grazed his ear. "We could be very creative together."

Her mind pushed at his. He didn't expect it, and she passed through his mental barriers. A wave of pleasure swept through his upper body. He gasped. 

"Don't tell me you haven't been curious," she said. 

Charles closed his eyes. He could have forced her out of his mind. But as another wave struck him, he realized he could barely move. It didn't just end at his waist that time. As Emma's mind seeped deeper, a new sensation emerged. So familiar and yet so strange now, like seeing a loved one after being separated for years.

His legs. He felt his lower body.

Slowly, he opened his eyes. Tears streamed down the sides of his face. 

"It's been awhile," Emma said with a satisfied grin.

Then, she kissed him. Her lips were moist; there was a faint taste of lipstick still tracing the edges. She slid her tongue into his mouth. 

His legs didn't move, but he felt every sensation she granted him. It was an illusion; she was teasing his mind. But it felt real. And he wanted that feeling. After everything that had been taken away, he wanted it more than anything else. 

He wrapped his arms around her. She pushed the covers down to his ankles and intertwined her legs with his. He tried to breathe, but it was difficult. His lips trembled. His hands were shaking. 

Emma pressed her mouth harder onto his. Her hands slipped underneath his shirt, her nails grazing his sides. He slid his hands up her back, her skin soft and firm, and so inviting. He squeezed her tightly to himself, tightening his grip with each wave of satisfaction she offered.

But then, his mind caught up with him. 

"Wait—wait," he struggled to get out. 

Emma smiled. "Just relax. I'll take care of you."

She started kissing his neck, her telepathy enveloping his.

With a groan, he pushed at her mind. Across the lower half of his body, the sensation dulled some.

Emma stopped. She lifted her head; her smile was gone. "What's the matter?"

"I know what you're doing," he replied. "I…I can't—I won't help you work Cerebro. Not even for this." He exhaled deeply, feeling as his legs continued to grow numb again.

Emma peered down. Her face was impossible to read, but through his telepathy, Charles felt her frustration—even anger. She didn't like being said no to.

Then, out of nowhere, the woman released a laugh. She grinned at him again, but this time, it wasn't meant to be pleasant. "Let's face some facts, sugar," she said. "Just between the two of us. You know what I can do for you. And I know what _you_ can't." She brought her lips half an inch from his. "So I'm about the only option you have left."

As her words sunk in, any desire inside Charles burned away. He shoved the woman off; she fell back near the end of the bed. 

"Get out," he exclaimed, sitting up.

She stared at him as if trying to figure out if he was real.

"Leave!" he shouted.

Emma glared. Fury blazed through her eyes like the dark blue should have been bright red. But underneath, surprise was also lurking. 

With that, Charles said, “So that's it, then? With all your power, the only thing you're good for is seducing men."

Eyes like razors, Emma came back, "It’s always worked well enough."

"Getting what you want in exchange for sexual favors?" Charles frowned. "There's a word for that."

The movement was swift; he barely caught the glint of crystal before it flashed across his face. It smacked his left cheek and felt like a brick had struck him. With a shout, he toppled to his right, his hands clasping his head. Across the lower half of his body, all sensation was gone.

Emma Frost stood. Back to her diamond form, she walked to the metal fence blocking Cerebro and then slid through it the same way she had entered. Using her crystal fingers, she pinched the metal together again, and then left the base, never looking back as Charles held his face, the skin feeling like it was on fire.

**End of Chapter**


	13. Chapter 13

Morning. Stepping into the island base, Erik spotted Charles at the dining room table and instantly furrowed his brow. The other man had his head on the table's surface, a washcloth cradling the left side of his face.

Erik passed through the fencing. As he reached his friend, he pulled back the damp cloth. From Charles' left temple down to his jaw line, there was a streak of pink mixed with small, half centimeter scrapes. 

"What the hell happened here?" Erik asked.

Greeting Erik with a glare, Charles said, "Your diamond friend paid me a visit last night."

Trying to hide his surprise, Erik examined the injury. It was slightly inflamed and some scrapes had clearly bled a little, but it wasn't much worse than a bad rug burn. He grabbed the washcloth from Charles' care, walked to the refrigerator and opened the door. The icebox was too high for Charles to reach; Erik started packing ice cubes onto the cloth.

"So she smacked you?" he asked. 

"She was trying to convince me to use Cerebro, and didn't particularly like it when I refused her advances." Charles angled his gaze downwards. "I might have also—indirectly—called her a whore." Despite his injury, a smile toyed with his lips.

With that, Erik snorted a breath of laughter and returned to the table. "Oh, that's smart, Charles.” He pressed the washcloth to his friend's face. Charles groaned, cupping his hands over the cloth. Sitting, Erik continued, "Yes, a woman who’s capable of transforming into a complete crystalline entity…and you call her a prostitute."

"Well, I realize that in hindsight." Charles dropped the washcloth from his cheek. He released a small laugh. "Really, Erik—how much longer are we going to be doing this?"

"I don't know, Charles. How much longer are _you_ going to be doing this?"

"Don't give me that nonsense. You know damn well why I can't help you."

Erik sighed. "I actually didn't come here to argue with you today.”

“That would be original.”

“I think I've come up with a solution to our little problem here."

At those words, Charles raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Really? And what is that, Erik?"

Producing a piece of paper from his jacket's pocket, Erik handed it to Charles. Charles studied it, curiosity etched on his face. "Are these what I think they are?" 

Erik nodded. "A dozen coordinates for mutants across the west coast. They're the ones Emma obtained during her short interactions with Cerebro."

"It was my understanding she couldn’t use the machine."

"It causes her pain, Charles. Personally, I don't think its her telepathy that's the issue here. I think it's her own apprehension."

"Give her a sedative, then."

Erik smirked. "Yes, because that's exactly what we need. A mentally compromised telepath linking her mind with the entire planet."

Charles pursed his lips; he lifted the paper. "You said you have a solution. What is it?"

"I have no desire to bring children here to fight for our cause," Erik continued. “But you—you can help the younger generation far better than I could. I know you've already considered that. I saw the boxes at your house."

Charles gave him a once-over, but said nothing.

"Most mutants are children,” Erik went on. “Finding adults is more difficult, it seems."

"What are you proposing?" 

"Use Cerebro. Give us the coordinates we need, and any that are children, we give those to you."

Charles' expression had darkened as if Erik's idea was offensive to his ears. But in his eyes, a trace of interest shimmered. 

"I know Hank will eventually rebuild the machine,” Erik went on, “but it'll take time. Do you really think those wasted months are necessary?"

Charles seemed ready to protest, but stopped himself. He turned back to the paper, his fingers twitching on its edges. Erik could practically see the wheels of thought turning in his friend's mind. But then, a long sigh escaped Charles' lips. 

"No.” Charles set the paper on the table. "Your price is too high."

Tapping his fingers on the table, Erik groaned. "Dammit, Charles—what would you have me do? You're the only option we have."

"That's not my problem. You have no right to do what you've done, no matter the circumstances."

It was sudden; even Erik didn't expect it. But inside him, a surge of anger surfaced and with it, he slammed his palm into the tabletop. Charles flinched. Jerking away from his seat, Erik stood, eyeing his old friend.

"I don’t have the right?" Erik asked. "What gives you the right, Charles? These people are our kind. They're our brothers, and we have a right to let them know we exist!"

Charles expanded his chest like he was preparing for an assault.

Erik pointed a finger at him. "What I'm asking of you is an inconvenience at worst. Help us find our brothers and sisters. And your self-righteous delusions don't give you authority to deny us—and them—the right to join our cause."

Erik watched as the other man digested the words and waited for him to hit back with his own. But no anger stirred. Instead, Charles frowned, sadness cloaking his expression like he was looking at something he regretted. 

After a moment, Charles finally said, "I'm curious to know something, Erik. When you create this mutant army, what do you intend to do with it?"

The fury coursing through Erik's body weakened some. 

"What is the ultimate goal here?” Charles continued. “Will you try to control all of mankind? Eliminate them? Or simply continue to isolate yourself from humanity as you've been doing for the last six months?"

"I will do what is necessary to protect my kind, Charles.”

"That's not good enough. I've seen what you do to protect our kind."

Erik instantly knew what Charles was referring to—Cuba. The missiles. As the images of that day resurfaced in Erik's mind, all the anger inside him vanished like a raindrop under a desert sun. He sank back down into his seat.

Charles continued, "Don't you see, my friend? You've isolated yourself so far away from mankind with your 'brotherhood of mutants'…you don't even know what humanity is anymore. How can you possibly judge it?"

"I've had my entire life to judge it."

Charles slouched his shoulders. "Oh, yes. At the mercy of Nazis. Hunting down and killing Nazis."

"What's the point, Charles?"

"Can't you even see the hypocrisy in your convictions? Erik, I'm not about to defend the Nazi regime by any stretch of the imagination, but your personal tormenter _was a mutant_."

Erik averted his gaze to the table.

"The person who directly killed your mother was a mutant," Charles continued. "The man who has hurt you the most in your life was a mutant." He paused. There was hesitation as if he didn't know if he wished to say more, but then he added, "And the person who has hurt me the most…is you."

Erik brought his eyes back to Charles.

"A mutant," the other man finished, and then shook his head. "For a superior race, we appear to be quite primitive, my friend."

Erik tried to keep his face as strong as steel, but he felt the skin flush. All this time, he knew Charles blamed him for what happened that day on the beach. That was no secret and Erik made no defense to prove otherwise. But to hear the words…it was amazing how the other man could shoot daggers in a voice just above a whisper.

After a minute, Erik summoned the strength to reply. "I have to ask you something, Charles. During our time together before Cuba, did you ever heed any of the warnings I offered?"

Charles held his chin high, but the strength in his eyes waned some.

"You didn't, did you?" Erik continued. "I told you exactly what the humans would do. The moment we were no longer necessary, they turned into our enemies. But you didn't want to believe that. And you still don't."

When Charles didn’t respond, Erik nodded. "You want to believe they're something they're not. Despite all the evidence proving otherwise."

At that, Charles closed his eyes. When he returned them to Erik, the sadness gave way to exhaustion as if he had just aged a hundred years in five seconds. 

"So that is your reasoning, Erik?" Charles whispered. "Billions of lives deserve your judgment? You will be the final say?"

"We are the future, Charles. The CIA can only hide the truth about our existence for so long. When the public realizes we exist—when news of mutants reaches the entire world—there will be war. So who do you intend to side with? Us…or them?"

Charles held still as if trapped in place. After a moment, he replied softly, "And you wonder why I refuse to help you."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Slamming the phone down, Hank McCoy brushed a hand through his head of fur. He sat at Charles' desk, papers sprawled across its surface. He had removed all of Charles' books and files; all the paperwork was Hank’s, all of it data he'd collected the last couple days. 

He'd called pharmaceutical distributors and pharmacies across the United States. He asked about the particular brands of supplies, hoping to catch a pattern. It was like an encryption; Hank was good at those, but not when he didn't have all the data to unlock the code.

Half the companies refused to offer him the information. It was a nuisance for the distributors to crunch the numbers, and they certainly didn’t want to do that without a good reason. Even with the places that cooperated, there were millions of people that used the same brands and supplies Charles did. Hospitals did. Nursing homes did. 

Things were not as simple as Hank would have hoped.

And now, he was hitting dead ends.

"Hank," Sean said as he knocked on the door. Beside him, Alex stood, holding a mound of folded papers in his grasp.

Hank pushed back on the office chair. "Any luck?"

"That would be a 'no,' Hank," Alex said as he reached him and handed over the paperwork. "Half the places I called told me to buzz off."

"Same here," Sean said as he sat at one of the chairs in front of the desk. "I pretended to be a doctor, a pharmacist and even a dad. I think word is spreading that some creepy guys are calling about all this stuff."

Hank snarled to himself. He placed a hand over his glasses, his vision becoming as unfocused as his thoughts. "All right. We need to think of a new strategy here."

The three men grew silent. A minute lugged by. Hank peeked up from the desk. Alex was gawking at the ceiling. Sean had his gaze pasted to the floor.

Watching them, Hank sagged a little. "This is counter-productive."

"There is one thing," Sean said.

"Anything,” Hank replied. “Please, Sean."

"Well," Sean grimaced like the words hurt his throat, "we could always call Moira."

Alex dropped his gaze back down. 

"She could pull some heavy, CIA talk and get us all the information we'd need," Sean went on. He tapped his fingers nervously on his lap.

Hank's stomach tightened. Moira. That was a name he had barely heard in months. Other than his confrontation with Charles, he hadn't spoken about her since she left their lives four months before. Because Charles wanted to protect them—and her.

"No," Hank said. "Charles sent her away for a reason.”

“That was before he was, you know, kidnapped by a pile of angry mutants,” Alex said.

“If we bring her into this,” Hank went on, “we could endanger her life. And maybe our own."

"What else are we supposed to do?" Alex asked. "Continue calling random pharmacies?"

"This isn't working, Hank," Sean said. "It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack the size of Texas."

Rotating back and forth in his chair, Hank intertwined his fingers in front of his face, thinking. Charles had pushed Moira away to protect them from the CIA. But Erik was just as great a threat now, it seemed.

With that, Hank focused on the other men. Sean sat at the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, his gaze hooked to Hank. Alex stood, arms folded to his chest and face etched in the same intensity as Sean’s. 

Turning back to the pile of papers thrown across Charles' desk, Hank McCoy sighed. 

They really were desperate.

**End of Chapter**


	14. Chapter 14

The sun was shifting from bright afternoon white to sunset orange by the time Magneto made it back to the _Cassandra_ with Azazel. On the deck, Riptide was lounging in a white shirt and a pair of pants that were cut too short for any man to wear respectably. By the yacht's railing, Emma Frost stood. Her gaze met Magneto's the instant he flashed back on the ship.

Immediately, he approached the woman. He grabbed her arm and jerked her away from the railing. "What do you think you were doing?" he asked.

Her body shifted to diamond form. "Let go of my arm." 

Behind him, Riptide got out from his chair. Magneto could feel both his and Azazel's eyes trained on him.

Nonetheless, Erik didn't let Emma go. "I told you I would handle this. That was our arrangement."

"That's the problem, Erik," Riptide came back. "You're not handling it."

With a shove, Magneto released Emma's arm. The woman remained in her crystal form and backed away from him like she was ready to go on the attack at any moment.

Magneto turned to the other mutants on the deck. "What, exactly, did you expect? I thought I made myself perfectly clear when we decided to carry this out. Charles Xavier is my problem. Your lack of patience is not."

Riptide glanced at Azazel. The red-skinned man stood like a statue, but on his face, frustration was brewing. The others were growing impatient. They were growing angry. Magneto's inability to make Charles do as he wished was causing unrest. And mistrust. 

Deep within him, a pang of concern stabbed Magneto's gut. He could handle any of them. But could he guard Charles? Emma had slipped through the cracks already. 

Frowning, Magneto pointed a finger at Emma. "You are not to go back there unless I say otherwise," he said, and then to the men, "That goes for all of you. I will deal with the telepath. But I'll deal with him on my own. Any ideas to the contrary are ill-advised, my friends. Is that understood?"

None of the other mutants moved, their expressions as hard as cement. Nonetheless, no more protests emerged, and as Magneto reeled around to go to his quarters, he knew no more would. 

For now.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The room was small—just large enough for a bed, a nightstand and a closet in the corner. As Magneto opened the door to his quarters, that's all he expected to find. On the edge of his mattress, however, a blue figure sat, her face angled to the floor.

Closing the door, Magneto grinned at the woman. "You enjoy surprising me, don't you?"

Instead of a sweet sparkle in Mystique’s bright amber eyes, however, there was something else entirely. A tear ran down her cheek.

Immediately, Magneto took off his helmet. He hurried to Mystique and knelt down in front of her. "What is it?" he asked.

Swallowing a sob, the woman said, "You have to get Charles to use that machine."

Magneto's eyes widened. "Where is this suddenly coming from?"

"They're getting restless, Erik. If you don't get Charles to do this, they will."

The fear on the woman's face was strong enough to give Magneto pause. He wanted to tell her that such fear was unnecessary, but things were not running as smoothly as he'd hoped. 

Nonetheless, he placed a hand on the side of Mystique's face and told her gently, "Don't concern yourself with them. They expected this to be simple. I never did."

Defeat cloaked Mystique's features; it wasn't just that, Magneto could tell. She rested her hand on top of his. "I never wanted this," she whispered, and then took in a breath as if she didn't wish to say more yet had to. "But…I understand why you did it."

Magneto pressed his lips together.

"You're right," Mystique continued. "I know that. Charles is the only one who knows how to operate Cerebro. And as much as I hate everything that's going on, we need his help. I just wish…" she sighed, "I just wish he could see it."

"Charles is a stubborn, self-righteous man," Magneto said. "Trying to convince him to do something he doesn't believe in has proven to be rather…exhausting."

"Should I talk to him? I could explain things to him. I could convince him—"

"No. I think that could make things worse."

"What should we do?"

With that, Magneto brought his other hand to Mystique's face. He leaned towards her, the warmth of her body causing his frustration to vanish like a candle's flame to a gust of wind. He grazed his fingers on her cheeks, feeling the texture of her skin. Her beautiful, sapphire skin.

"We shouldn't do anything," Magneto finally said. "We keep with our plan as it stands right now. I'll take care of Charles."

"What about the others? What if they try something again?"

Magneto gave the woman a smile. But inside, he felt his veins burning. 

"Then, I'll take care of them, too."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Wine. The cheap stuff. It tasted like someone must have been drunk to have made it that bad. Nonetheless, there was alcohol somewhere in there, and as Moira MacTaggert sat at her kitchen table, she sipped at the glass in her hands in hopes of finding it. 

In front of her, there was an entourage of files. The one from William Stryker rested underneath Charles and then Erik’s. She would probably be going to prison sometime soon. 

Smirking to herself, Moira took another gulp of her five dollar wine and swallowed.

In her living room, the phone rang. She didn't want to answer it; it was probably Levene insisting that she stop fooling around and get her butt to work. As the phone continued blaring, however, Moira gave in. Carting her glass with her, she lugged herself from the kitchen table and reached the phone on one of the sofa’s end tables in the living room.

“Hello,” she greeted the caller as she picked up the phone.

No reply. From the receiver, Moira listened to someone breathing.

On the realization, her heart skipped a beat. She opened her mouth.

“Moira?” the voice of Hank McCoy came through.

Moira slouched her shoulders.

“Moira, you there?” the man called again.

His voice was altered somehow—deeper than Moira remembered. 

“Hank?” she asked. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” the man replied with a sigh, “It’s me, Moira. We need to talk.”

“Okay.”

“Are you sitting?”

“No.”

“You might want to do that.”

Moira did as instructed, planting herself on the edge of her sofa. Then, for the next half hour, Hank explained things. He talked about everything Moira had forgotten from the day on the beach—what happened with Erik and the other mutants. The missiles. Charles’ injury. And then, he brought everything up to the here and now, and as Moira listened to Hank tell her exactly what Erik had done, her body tensed like the muscles had hardened to solid rock.

“We can’t find him,” Hank said. “They could be on the other side of the world by this point. The only lead we have…well, it’s not much of a lead, to be honest.”

“Where are you, Hank?” Moira asked.

On the other end of the phone, the man was silent. Then, “I—I can’t tell you that, Moira.”

“Hank—"

“No, Moira. I’m sorry, but I can’t. If you want to help us, then this is how it needs to be.”

Moira shook her head as if Hank could see her.

“Will you help find the information we need?” he asked.

A part of Moira wanted to bargain with the man, urging him to knock off the secrecy crap and include her in this investigation completely. But she didn’t say that. Charles had pushed her away under the delusion that he was protecting her and the others. Hank wasn’t about to flip that coin around, even for something like this.

Pressing the phone to her cheek, Moira finally replied, “Yes. I’ll help you.”

**End of Chapter**


	15. Chapter 15

Another day. Another less to work with. Azazel teleported Magneto to the island's outskirts and then flashed away before the red cloud had a chance to form into something real. About a quarter mile from the base, Erik hiked. The sun hadn’t even peeked out into the horizon yet and already he was sweating.

With each step, Magneto considered his options. Charles was growing tired, but so was Magneto’s “brotherhood,” as his friend had described it. And despite all his power, Magneto couldn’t be there every second to guard the base, not when such powerful beings could teleport inside or use their powers from miles away. 

For Charles’ own protection, his friend needed to comply.

Unfortunately, Magneto had already tried everything—reasoning—even bargaining with the other man. There was only one option left and as Magneto considered it, his stomach practically twisted inside-out. If Charles didn’t snap out of his own delusions, Magneto would have to force him onto the machine. 

During his time at the CIA, Charles had never used Cerebro for more than half an hour at a time. Having his mind amplified all over the world might have been an enthralling experience for the telepath, but it was also overwhelming. Exhausting.

But what would being hooked up to Cerebro for hours nonstop do to him?

Magneto reached the base’s metal door. The steel was lackluster and rusted from the tropical climate. He felt the metal within his invisible grasp, under his power. Under his control.

Not touching the door, Magneto opened it. With the exception of Cerebro, a soft amber glow filled the rest of the base like a hundred soft candles. Magneto stepped inside and closed the metal slab behind him.

As the noise of insects and birds was left outside, the sound from the room instantly snapped him to attention. Gasping. Like someone groaning in pain, and as the sound echoed off the marble walls, Magneto recognized Charles’ voice. Immediately, images of Emma and the other mutants invaded his mind; he hurried forward. Splitting the metal fence at its center, Magneto jumped up the steps and into the main section of the room.

He spotted Charles the same instant Charles’ eyes caught his. His friend lay on the floor by his bed, curled into himself. His face was red.

“God,” Charles muttered, “you have the worst timing on this planet.”

“What happened?” Erik asked as he approached. “Who was here?”

“Go away, Erik. Please…just leave.”

Erik reached his friend’s side. He knelt down, ready to inspect whatever injury the other man had sustained—

That’s when he noticed it. Behind Charles, a small dot blemished the carpet. Then another. Droplets of yellow trailed from Charles’ backside to the edge of the bed. Erik peeked up. On the mattress, a puddle of urine stained the linens. In the air, there was a hint of ammonia.

Erik dropped his gaze to his friend. “Charles…?”

The other man had already averted his eyes away. His hands were shaking. Sweat glistened his brow. He opened his mouth like he was about to be sick, and then whispered, “I lost track of time. I—I didn’t know. I…just forgot.” He gasped like the words were nails in his throat.

On his knees, Erik absorbed the image before him. Charles’ pajamas were soaked, his upper body trembling like the floor was made from ice. A few feet away, his wheelchair had been pushed aside. 

Erik rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” Charles shouted, his face flushing even more. 

“Just…” Erik paused, trying to find the right words. “It's all right, Charles.”

“No, it's not all right! It is _not_ all right!” Charles shut his eyes like the lights were burning them. “Just…go away, Erik. Please—please, just go away.” When Erik didn’t move, Charles opened his eyes again; his face hardened. “ _Go away!_ ” 

Gasping, Charles rested his head on the carpet like he had no more strength in him. In a voice no loud than a whisper, he continued pleading for Erik to leave him there, his words devolving into mumbles as he spoke.

Removing his hand, Erik stood. He walked away from his friend. On the floor, Charles remained motionless, gently murmuring to himself. A minute passed. In the base, everything had calmed. Charles stopped talking. 

Then, the sound of the shower filled the base.

Returning to Charles, Erik knelt down and wrapped an arm underneath his friend’s back. He cupped his left hand under Charles’ knees. Then, with one swift move, he lifted the other man off the floor.

Charles gasped like Erik was attacking him. “Let go of me—let go of me!" he screamed and then his eyes sharpened into daggers. “ _Damn you!_ ”

Charles continued shouting. He struggled in Erik’s arms as they left the living area. They reached the only room set off from the rest of the base. Inside, the shower was running at full power; the sink’s mirror was already fogging. Without a second’s thought, Erik walked to the tub. He stepped over its rim. The water struck them both. Then, Erik lowered himself into the tub, Charles collapsing on top of him.

Lukewarm, the water poured. It soaked their clothing, seeping through Charles’ soiled garbs and mixing with everything else. In his black and red suit, Erik sat silently. He allowed the shower to drench him. 

Charles had stopped struggling. Head against Erik’s shoulder, he lay still as the water poured over his face and body. His gaze was set to nothing, a look of helplessness cast on his features like he was trapped inside something he could neither see nor escape.

Then, through trembling lips, Charles finally asked, “When do you reach that moment…when every ounce of dignity you have is gone?”

Erik didn’t respond. As the water came down, he knew he had no answer that would suffice. With all the power he possessed, it was useless there. So he sat, his friend lying on top of him, and allowed the water to cleanse them both.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Bundling up Charles' bed sheets, Erik walked through the open fence that lead to Cerebro and dropped the linens on top of an old wooden crate next to the doorway. He had already cleaned the mess on the carpet; he had wiped down and flipped the mattress. 

Wearing a new pair of sweats and undershirt, Charles sat on his bed, a quilt and the sofa's throw blanket laying across his lap. On his face was the same expression he had in the shower. He stared at his lap—at his legs—like he was seeing them for the first time. He said nothing.

Erik walked back into the room. He made his way to the kitchen and retrieved a glass. Filling it with tap water, he then came to Charles' bedside. The other man didn't seem to notice as Erik opened the top drawer to the end table beside the bed. Pulling out one of the orange bottles Charles stored in there, he opened the lid and shook a couple pain killers into his palm.

"Charles," he said as he closed the bottle and dropped it back into the drawer.

His friend peeked up.

"I want you to take these," Erik said and extended his hand with the pills.

Charles glanced at them and then Erik. "I'm not in any pain right now."

"I know, but they cause drowsiness, don't they?"

Charles blinked like he hadn't heard him right. But then, he slouched his shoulders and reached for the meds. Slipping the pills into his mouth, Charles accepted the glass of water and washed them down. Then, he gave the glass back and rested his head against his pillow.

Erik placed the glass on the end table. He twisted back around to Charles. He waited, wondering if his friend would say something—if his expression would change. But Charles never turned back to him.

Resigned, Erik headed for the door. As he walked, his legs felt like weights were strapped to them, and with each step, the weights grew heavier. In his throat, a jumble of words wanted to surface, but all of them seemed trivial. There was nothing he could say or do that would change any of it. 

Stepping down the stairs to Cerebro, he motioned his hand back; the fence merged together again. Then, snatching the bed sheets off the crate, he left through the door the same way he had entered earlier that morning, the island now consumed by the bright, tropical sunlight overhead.

**End of Chapter**


	16. Chapter 16

Moira MacTaggert stood in the center of her living room. Sprawled across the carpet was all the paperwork from Erik and Charles’ files, plus or minus a few hundred pages. Beyond it, another cascade of papers—notes from pharmaceutical distributors that Moira had called in the last couple days—and all of that amounted to one thing. Absolutely zilch.

On the wall opposite her front door, a map of the United States now hung. Tacks were jabbed into the cities, yarn linking them together like a poorly made spider’s web. Moira had tried to pull some international strings; she had a few connections in France and England that she was waiting to hear back from. That was a long shot, however. Erik could be anywhere on the planet. That put Moira at a severe disadvantage.

To the side of Moira’s face, her phone was planted firmly, the black plastic warm on her skin. Through the phone, Hank McCoy talked.

“It doesn’t match up,” he explained. “A&A distributors sells mainly to nursing homes. Erik would have to put in a special order to get supplies for an individual.”

“If he even bothered buying them,” Moira said.

“Lost inventory is the first thing I searched for, Moira. If Erik’s taken over Shaw’s operation, then he’s probably got money to burn. I just don’t think he’d resort to common thievery. It’s not his style.”

As she tapped her foot on the floor, Moira’s gaze drifted upwards. This was like trying to find a chest of gold buried in the Sahara Desert. But it wasn’t so much that they didn’t have leads. The problem was they had too many. 

Rubbing her eyes, Moira listened as Hank continued listing off possible pharmacies to check out. Perhaps they could look at this place and that; the three men could split up. Sean and Alex could head out West. Hank would tackle the ones up on the eastern coast, and as for Moira…

"We really need you to stay put," Hank explained. "If any new leads are found, we'll need your connections in Washington—"

“Hank,” Moira finally cut in. “This isn't going to work. There are hundreds of pharmacies that match the equipment you're talking about, if that's even what Erik would purchase."

"What do you suggest, then?"

With that, Moira lowered her head. She gazed at all the paperwork—Charles’ file and Erik’s, mixed together in a mess by her feet. Erik’s picture was paper-clipped to his folder. It was taken from a security camera at the entrance of the CIA’s research facility; the grainy image still managed to project the hardness in the man’s features.

Moira frowned. Erik was many things, including clever. And calculating. If he kidnapped Charles, there would have been a reason behind it. He wanted him for something.

“Moira?” Hank called.

“One minute.” Moira knelt down. She started burrowing through the paperwork. Notes were scribbled on the sides, some as recent as the last few weeks before Moira had stolen the folder. Near the back, a new report was shuffled in with the older ones.

It was from the recent attack on the old research facility—the same place Moira had taken Charles and Erik before Cuba. Erik and his band of mutants had gone back a month ago and stolen all of their CIA files. 

And then some.

Staring at the list of folders that were reported missing, Moira straightened back up. “Hank,” she said, “what supplies would someone need in order to reconstruct Cerebro?”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Hours past—it might have been most of the day. Charles didn't know. He had fallen asleep a short time after Erik left and woke in a cold sweat. For an instant, his heart almost exploded out of his chest, afraid he'd had another accident. But only perspiration cloaked his body that time.

He got out of bed. He wheeled around the base, viewing the finely laid out décor like he’d never seen it before. Above, the crystal lighting sparkled; around him, the marble walls were almost as reflective as glass. He caught his reflection in them. He turned away.

For awhile, he sat beside the metal fencing that lead to Cerebro. Grazing his fingers across its center, he noticed the imperfections in the wires from where Erik and Emma had weaved and unweaved them. He found himself rolling his wheelchair by the whole length of the fence—left to right—seeing where the wires met their ends on both sides and stabbed deep into the marble walls like nails into wood. 

Freedom had become a malicious riddle where a solution might not even exist.

Charles made his way into the living area. He sat across from the curved sofa, its velvet cushions shimmering from the lights above. He stayed there.

Eventually, there was another _shift_ on the island, this one close. Charles didn't bother trying to lock onto it; that proved useless. After a few minutes, the base's door opened and the dim glow of sunset peeped through. As Erik closed the metal slab, the base darkened again. 

He marched into the living area and sat on the sofa opposite Charles with a pile of folded sheets and sheep skin in his hands. Silently, he laid them by his side, and then leaned forward, mounting his hands on his knees. 

Erik held still, his fingers intertwined under his chin. Then he asked, "Are you sick?"

Charles’ eyes felt tired. "Would it matter if I was?"

"We could get medicine for you—anything you would need." He glanced up at Charles. "Is that it?"

Averting his gaze to the floor, Charles shook his head.

"What happened, then?" Erik asked. "Is there something else? Something I should know about?"

Charles pursed his lips, unsure exactly what to say or if he should bother saying anything at all. Just the fact that his body now required explanations seemed so unreal—he felt as if his mind was suddenly immersed in smoke.

"Charles?" 

Gingerly, Charles dropped his hands in his lap. It felt like he was pressing them against a warm cushion—something soft and comforting. But not his body. It wasn’t really his body anymore, was it?

After a minute, Charles finally whispered, "My bladder is paralyzed. I can't feel it. And I can't control it."

Erik straightened up.

Charles continued, "I'm on a rigid catheterization schedule. I have to be aware of what I’m eating and drinking, but there's no guarantee that…” He broke off and lifted his head. “I couldn’t keep track of the time. I forgot. It's as simple as that."

Erik’s expression darkened like he was angered by something. Then, out of nowhere, he rolled up his sleeve. Wrapped around his wrist was a gold watch, and without hesitation, he unfastened it. Dangling off his fingers, he extended his hand to Charles.

"Here," he said. 

Timidly, Charles reached out. He accepted the watch, the metal reflecting the base’s lights like a mirror. He clasped it around his left arm, and returned his hands to his lap. "Thank you," he whispered.

Both men grew quiet. Erik fidgeted like the silence was eating away at him, and then he slapped his hands to his legs. He stood, grabbed a hold of the handles on the back of Charles' wheelchair, and began carting him towards the kitchen.

"What are you doing?" Charles asked as the man stopped by the oak table.

"Stay here," Erik said as he released the back of the chair. 

Then, he headed towards the access door in the kitchen’s corner. As Erik used his powers to unlatch it, Charles peeked inside—a stairway. Without a word, Erik walked up the steps and out of sight. Sitting at the table, Charles peered down at the polished oak. Even on the wood, he could see himself. His hair unkempt—his bangs tousled about and his face unshaven. It didn’t resemble him anymore.

From the stairway, Erik returned. In the man's hands was a bottle filled with dark amber; he set it on the table. "Shaw might have been a murdering waste of our kind," he explained as he went to the cabinets and withdrew some glasses, "but the man did possess a refined palette."

From the icebox, he popped ice cubes into both glasses and then came back to the table. Plopping into the chair to the left of Charles, Erik unscrewed the bottle and began pouring the drinks. 

Filling the first one to its rim, Erik slid it to Charles. "Here," he said and started on the next glass. “The sooner you finish that one, the sooner I can pour you another.”

Charles gaped at the liquor in front of him. He couldn’t drink his problems away. Then again, being sober wasn’t helping much, either. He grabbed the glass.

As he finished loading up his own, Erik lifted the drink.

"Cheers, my friend," Erik said, and brought the liquid to his lips.

Charles did the same, and the drink poured down his throat.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Within a couple hours, Charles and Erik's glasses remained full and the bottle gradually became empty. At first, the alcohol only made Charles more tired. But he drank that feeling away with two more glasses, and soon found himself staring at the dining room table. On its surface sat a chessboard Erik had retrieved from the base's upstairs level an hour before. Pawns were scattered on the board, mixed with bishops, rooks, and all the other chess royalty.

Bending forward so far his nose was almost touching the table, Charles studied the pieces. It was his turn.

"You've been staring at that board for almost five minutes," Erik said. "Are you planning on making a move or do you intend for the pieces to drag themselves across the board?"

As Charles continued examining the chess' black and ivory players, a revelation suddenly struck him. "I can't remember which color I am," he said and shot a smile at Erik.

Even with his helmet on, the amusement on the other man's face managed to shine through. Then, in unison, both men burst out laughing. Erik extended a hand and patted Charles hard on the shoulder. "It's the one that's beating me, Charles."

"Oh, that makes it easy, then.”

Snorting another breath of laughter, Erik shook his head and brought his attention back to the game. Charles followed his friend's gaze and then lifted his hand. Queen’s-bishop-three to queen’s-rook-six. He slid one of Erik's chess pieces off the board and set it aside.

Erik surveyed the game, his face serious again. He scanned the entire board, mapping out where every player was positioned, soaking in the full picture. Calculating—Charles spotted it in his eyes. It was a common look for Erik.

Charles lifted his glass. It was almost empty, so he sipped lightly; the bitter liquid rolled down his throat. Erik made his move—king’s rook-four-to-king’s rook-seven.

Reclining in his chair, Erik gestured towards the chessboard. But Charles didn't look at the game. He gazed at his friend, at his bright red helmet and equally vibrant attire. Erik shifted in his chair, and Charles knew the other man had noticed his eyes on him.

Charles didn't look away. Instead, he rested his arms on the table, leaning over until Erik finally met his gaze. 

"There's something I want to tell you," Charles said. "Something I've wanted to tell you since Cuba."

Tensing in his seat, Erik exhaled slowly. "All right."

Charles stared him down. Then, he nodded towards Erik's helmet. "You look like a total idiot with that thing on your head."

Erik’s eyes widened. Then, a grin curved on his lips; a belt of laughter escaped his throat. Charles followed suit, and then both men's voices echoed off the marble walls.

After a minute, Erik gestured a hand towards his helmet. "I'm quite well-aware, Charles. Thank you."

"It looks rather uncomfortable as well."

" _Uncomfortable_ is too kind a word." Erik sighed. “It's heavy. It's clunky. There's sweat, quite literally, dripping down the back of my neck as we speak."

"Well, you could always take it off.”

Erik's laughter faded. "I'm not that drunk, Charles.”

With a deep exhale, Charles nursed his drink again.

The amusement suddenly vanished from the room. Charles sat upright; his gaze was fixed on the chess game, but he felt Erik eyeing him this time. 

“May I ask you something now?" Erik said. 

From the expression on the other man’s face, Charles already knew what the subject matter would be. Nonetheless, he nodded.

"What have the doctors told you?" 

Charles grabbed a chess piece. "That I'll never walk again," he said and repositioned another player.

Erik hesitated as if trying to find deceit in Charles’ words. Then, he looked up at the ceiling. "It can't be as simple as that."

"It is as simple as that.”

Erik dropped his gaze back to Charles. "So…there's nothing that can be done? No treatment—"

"There is no treatment," Charles came back. "There is no cure. There is rehabilitation and learning to live with it. That is all."

Erik held still as if there was a conflict stewing in his mind. He clearly wanted to say more, perhaps even argue somehow. But Charles knew there was no argument—not for this. As the seconds passed, his old friend seemed to recognize that fact; the hardness on Erik’s face collapsed like he couldn’t hold onto it any longer. 

"It was an accident, Charles," Erik finally said. "I never meant for any of it to happen. I wasn’t—"

"Please, stop.”

"I didn't realize you were there—"

"I said to stop."

Erik paused as if debating whether or not he should comply. Then, he closed his mouth.

Between them, the chessboard sat, the pieces scattered about the game—the colors mixed together. Charles nodded towards the table. "It's your turn."

At that, Erik cleared his throat, and the emotions on his face closed down again. That clever, calculating visage reemerged, and then the man extended his hand. He glided a piece across the board.

Queen’s knight-five to king’s bishop-seven. 

Erik pulled Charles' piece off the board and the game continued.

End of Chapter


	17. Chapter 17

It was late by the time Erik returned to the _Cassandra_. As always, Azazel brought him onboard, and usually, there was one or two other mutants lounging on the deck. Not that night. Instead, the entire brotherhood stood there—Emma, Angel, Riptide…even Mystique, although her expression didn't quite match the others. Hers was soft and reserved; she was there to support him.

The rest, including Azazel, were not.

"So," Riptide started the instant the teleporter's red fog vanished, "did you make any progress this evening?"

Erik detected the little edge in the other man's voice, and frowned. "What do you consider progress, if I may ask?"

Riptide gave a look upwards as if sarcastically thinking to himself. "I'm not sure, Erik. But whatever definition you use, I have a feeling the answer is no." 

Magneto surveyed the others. Azazel had squeezed himself between Riptide and Emma, his face appearing demonic with the navy sky overhead. Emma's expression was almost as emotionless as stone, but he noticed that touch of irritation in her eyes. She was getting tired of the delays. So was Angel. Even Mystique seemed fatigued, like she just wanted the entire ordeal done with.

But there was only one ring-leader. None of them would have even confronted Magneto about their current dilemma if Riptide could simply hold his impatience to himself. But the man had been talking; clearly, he had gotten everyone else riled.

Magneto sensed their eyes burrowing in on him; nonetheless, he focused his where they belonged. 

With that, Magneto gave Riptide a tight, unpleasant grin. "You truly thought this would be so simplistic, didn't you? That the disabled telepath would just bow his head the instant we brought him here and do whatever we asked."

"He's helpless, Erik," Riptide came back. "You understand that? He's sitting in that wheelchair of his, unable to hardly move—let alone escape—and we're out here, scratching our heads. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?"

Magneto smirked. "Let's make something perfectly clear. That man is far from helpless."

Groaning, Riptide ran his hands down his face like he was trying to tear tissue from bone. 

"We need to stop negotiating," Azazel cut in. "He needs to know who is in charge now."

"And what do you intend to do to demonstrate this fact to him?" Magneto asked.

Azazel crossed his arms. He stood tall, his chin raised like he was the leader of an army. Magneto opened his mouth, ready to explain all the reasons Azazel shouldn't be considering such ideas, when Mystique grabbed the red man's arm.

"No," she said. "Please, Azazel—Charles is one of us. When did we decide it was okay to hurt our own kind?"

Staring at the blue-skinned woman, Azazel's expression calmed. He lowered his arms. 

Around the circle, Mystique's words seemed to hit a cord with the others. Emma shut her eyes; Angel peered out at the ocean as if the black waves held an answer. The only contrast was Riptide. Shaking his head, the other man sailed between Magneto and the group of mutants, and opened his arms to the group.

"That telepath is _not_ one of us," Riptide said. "The moment he decided to put humans above his own kind, he became the enemy. And that was his choice."

"We're not hurting him,” Mystique exclaimed. “Wasn't that the deal you made with us when we decided to do this in the first place?"

"You’re being a little dramatic, don’t you think?" Riptide replied and then bent down. Brushing up his right pant leg, he slid a thin, hand-crafted blade from its holster around his calf. "This problem has an easy solution. Give me five minutes. Just five, and by the time I'm finished with him, that man will be begging to—"

It was a jerk reaction. Within his grasp, Magneto grabbed a hold of everything metal across Riptide's body—from his dagger, to his suit's buttons and zipper, to the filling's in his teeth. He used them to throw the man across the deck.

With a _thud_ , Riptide struck the helm's exterior wall, his dagger-hand trapped by the knife's handle. His mouth spasmed like someone's hand was trying to dig inside it and yank out his molars.

Quite pitiful looking, really.

Nonetheless, the man did retain some focus. In front of Magneto, a gust of air started reeling. The other mutants backed off, except one. Mystique rushed to Magneto's side; instantly, he pushed her away. A second later, the air burst into a spin. It was so dense Magneto couldn't even see Riptide behind it.

But he could still feel him—the metal across his body.

The air erupted towards Magneto. That wasn't his concern. The air couldn't be attacked or conquered. It couldn't be calmed. The man controlling it, however—that was a different story.

With his power, Magneto jerked Riptide forward. He tossed the other man into his own whirlwind. Riptide screamed. The winds instantly dispersed. Then, Magneto grabbed a hold of him again, shoving the other man into the helm's wall where Magneto had restrained him in the first place.

That time, Riptide didn't struggle. Holding a hand outwards, Magneto walked forward. "Allow me to clarify things for you," Magneto said as he continued prying at Riptide's fillings. "You will not go to that island. You will not lay a hand on the telepath. He's mine to deal with. And if you feel the sudden urge to challenge me on this topic again, just remember this…"

Magneto eased his hand back. He could have torn the other man's teeth from his head; he could have shredded him with his own dagger. But for his fellow mutant, he decided to be merciful—this time. Across Riptide's suit, all the buttons shot off as if they were bullets from a gun. His zipper flew into the ocean. With a gasp, the man collapsed to the yacht's deck, his clothing in shambles. He gazed up at Magneto.

"…I will be displeased," Magneto finished. "And I promise you, I am the last person you wish to displease."

Without another word, Magneto stepped away from the fallen man. He didn't bother glancing at the other mutants—with the exception of Mystique, he was sick of them all. Feeling his cape sway behind him, Magneto left the upper decks and headed to his quarters.

Once inside, his strong demeanor caved. Wrenching the helmet off his head, he tossed the thing into the corner. It struck the outer wall with a resonating _clank_. Things were falling apart. Yes, he had won that battle. But the conflict would continue to escalate unless he did something. And soon.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Hank hadn't called. Moira paced around her living room and kitchen, knocking into paperwork as she passed. She knew he was following leads. For all his intellect, however, Hank wasn't an investigator. He didn't know the procedures, and as Moira plopped down on her sofa, a wave of helplessness consumed her. All she could do was sit by the damn phone and wait.

She'd considered getting a tap on her own phone line. Levene or a few other trusted agents at the CIA could pull some strings; no one would have to know. But if someone did, Moira would put Charles and the other mutants in danger. She was already pushing it with all the information she'd requested from her colleagues. 

Moira cupped her hands to her face, rubbed her eyes and then returned her attention to the report resting beside her on the sofa. It was the list of folders Erik stole from the research facility. Cerebro required a lot of oddball supplies; Moira had already called those in, among other things. 

As she stared at the list, something unsettled her stomach. Not Cerebro's file—not even Erik's. It was Charles'. No matter where Erik had taken him, there was little chance Charles could escape on his own. But he was still a telepath. He had spread his powers through the CIA headquarters, across a Russian military base, and throughout an ocean full of naval ships with the ease of brushing his teeth.

Although Moira didn't know how far Charles' telepathy actually spanned, one thing was certain; the man would use his powers if he could. Wherever Erik was keeping him, it was some place far from civilization. A desert—a forest—an island. 

Removing herself from the sofa, Moira snatched up paperwork from all the distributors she'd called and places she'd highlighted. Most were in large cities—lots of people and places and minds. Retrieving a pen from the carpet, Moira started scratching those locations off her list.

****


	18. Chapter 18

At its center, Charles tugged at the fence. His telepathy was focused, stretched out in hopes of locating someone in the real world who might hear him. It was the same routine he'd followed since he was brought to the base—finding a means to escape. 

Throughout his veins, however, nothing but warmth fueled him. The night before, Charles had seen something he hadn't since arriving there—his friend. Not a shadow of him lost underneath the stabbing eyes of Magneto. No. It had been Erik. The man who would talk with him—listen to him. Help him. There had been compassion on Erik's face. 

Perhaps no escape was necessary. Erik might simply be ready to take him home.

From the door behind Cerebro, there came a small _thump_. Recognizing the noise—the knob unlocking—Charles scooted his wheelchair away from the fence. Erik made his way inside, Cerebro's round room hiding him in darkness. As his friend parted the fencing and lumbered up to the base's main living area, however, Charles spotted something different about him. His walk was heavy; his hands were clenched together.

As Erik faced him, any comfort Charles possessed seconds before faded away. The man's expression was as rigid as the marble walls surrounding them. His eyes were sharp, his body as straight and tall as a great oak. 

Absorbing the image, Charles grabbed onto his chair's armrests. "Erik?"

"We have a problem," the other man spoke.

Without another word, Erik headed for the dining room table. Before Charles had a chance to follow, his wheelchair rattled, and then on its own, it propelled forward. As he kept his hands away from the wheels, Charles was brought to the edge of the table. Erik turned to him. His hands were clamped to his waist like the weight of the world was battering him. Less than a foot away from the other man, Charles' wheelchair halted. 

Towering over Charles, Erik immediately stared him down. Intimidation. The contrast from the friend Charles had seen just a few hours before almost took his breath away. 

"The games are finished now, Charles," Erik said. "We've had our discussions. We've had our arguments. We both understand each other quite well, I believe. But now, it's time for the conversations to end. And it's time for you to do what I've asked of you."

Charles tried to maintain a steady gaze. He knew, just as Erik did, what angle his old friend was working. But the intensity in the other man's eyes didn't ease. They had finally reached this impasse, what Charles had been fearing since he woke up in the base.

Nonetheless, Charles met Erik's sharp eyes with his own—neither man backing down. "And what do you intend to do if I refuse, Erik?" 

"I'll force you. But that's not what I want."

"Is there really another option here?" Charles said, the gravity of his own words causing his heart to race. "I already explained myself to you. I've explained myself _ad nauseum_ , in fact, and still you refuse to do the right thing."

"And what is that, Charles? Take you home?"

"Yes."

Under his helmet, a hint of amusement curved Erik's mouth. "It's too late for that, my friend. You need to remove such wishful thoughts from your mind."

Charles frowned.

Unmoved, Erik continued, "You might not realize this, but things are not as simple as you seem to think. Whether or not you believe me, my main concern hasn't been Cerebro. It's been protecting you."

"Protecting me?"

"Yes. There are almost half a dozen mutants sitting on a yacht as we speak, and all of them are waiting. Waiting for you to get over your own ego and do what has been asked of you. And I assure you, when it comes to this 'brotherhood'…I'm the friendly one, Charles."

Charles tightened his jaw. "I thought you were the leader here, Erik."

"Again, things are not so simple. I wish they were. These are powerful beings, however, and they don't enjoy someone refusing their requests. So we are left with this final option. Work the machine, Charles."

Inhaling, Charles considered the other man's words. He was right, of course; his band of mutants were powerful. And deadly. But the other man wasn't right about everything. As Erik waited for a response, Charles was ready with one. "Tell them it didn't work.”

For the first time since the conversation started, the conviction on Erik's face cracked a little. 

"Tell them we tried to use Cerebro,” Charles continued. “Tell them the machine is faulty. Tell them it short-circuited or caught my hair on fire. Tell them it exploded and took me along with it—I don't care. Just make certain they believe it."

"You honestly think it's that easy?"

"Yes. I do, Erik. If that's what is really occurring here—if your main concern is my safety—then take that machine out of the equation and be done with it. And, for God's sake, _take me home!_ "

With that, Erik paused; a hint of realization seeped through. But Charles knew Erik—knew him better than the other man knew himself at times. And when Erik's face refused to soften, Charles just shook his head.

"Of course not," Charles said. "You're right, my friend—things are not so easy. Because, in this scenario, you don't get what you want. And that is your main concern…whether or not you believe it."

Charles kept his chin high, but inside, his body felt like it was ready to give out on him. He was sweating, his heart hammering into his ribcage. His hands clasped to his armrest in fear that if he lifted them, Erik would see how badly they were shaking. 

Charles knew what would happen next. He could see it in Erik's continuous glare. The other man had already made his decision, and he intended to carry it out no matter the cost. Extending his hands, Erik closed them on top of Charles' wrists, pinning them to the armrests. The other man’s eyes remained unblinking—unstoppable. As unmoving as a mountain and just as overwhelming.

Nonetheless, when Erik finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "This is the last time I'll ask you this, and for your sake, I want a different answer than the one you've been offering me. Will you work Cerebro?"

Charles hesitated. Not because he didn't know his answer; he knew it well. But he also realized what that answer would entail. He'd have to live with the consequences; Erik or his mutants would guarantee that. But there was no other option—not for him. 

"No," he finally told his old friend. "For the last time, Erik, that is—and will remain—my answer. I'm sorry."

Charles braced himself. But Erik didn't budge. No anger plagued his features. Instead, there was only a mild look of defeat, like the last bit of hope he was clinging to had just been washed away. 

With that, Erik straightened up. He released Charles’ wrists. 

"I'm sorry, too," he said softly, "but you're doing this to yourself."

On those words, the other man strode towards the metal fencing again. Stopping at the top of the stairs, he called out, "I'll be back in a few days. When I return, I expect another answer from you." Then, he threw a glance over his shoulder. "Unless you'd prefer to spend your life on this island. Alone."

Charles opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, Erik had already descended the stairs, the fencing had already merged itself back together, and the door was already opening. The other man stepped through, and then the door slammed into the marble surrounding it and locked.

**End of Chapter**


	19. Chapter 19

Time had run out. Charles saw it in Erik's eyes; it was the same look that had possessed the man right before he commanded dozens of missiles to fly back to their ships. And Charles knew what it meant. Any hopes of reasoning with his old friend were gone. 

Rolling into the kitchen, Charles yanked out the silverware drawer. He ran his hand across its back, groping for anything stuck there. He moved to the next one. He rummaged through all the lower cabinets. He pulled out a frying pan; turning it around, he spent several minutes clumsily trying to wedge the handle underneath the higher cabinet knobs he couldn’t reach on his own. When he finally managed to get the doors unlatched, nothing but canned goods stared back.

_Bloody hell._

Charles tossed the pan to the dining room table; it struck with a thunderous _clatter._

He had to calm down. He had to think. If escaping was a riddle to solve, then he knew the base well enough now to know what prospects it granted. 

The fence was the only obstacle barricading him from Cerebro—eight feet high and weighing more than the flimsy structure would lead him to believe, it was still just a fence. But he couldn’t climb over it; he couldn’t rip it apart. That left only one choice.

He had get under it.

Wheeling away from the kitchen, he reached his bed and shoved the mattress back. He examined the frame. Even if he could unscrew it, the metal was thin; it would never survive the fence’s weight. 

He surveyed the room. The sofas were made of wood and fabric. With any strain, the coffee table would break like a cheap umbrella. Even the dining room furniture wouldn't stand up to solid steel. 

The base quieted again—that horrid quiet that had plagued it since Charles woke there almost a week before. Across the living room, the crystal lights swayed lightly, the electricity giving off a mild droning. Through the kitchen's tall ceiling, there was a deeper hum; the piping rattled as water flowed through their crevices.

Slowly, Charles drew his gaze upwards. 

The pipes.

Strong, sturdy—impossible to tear down.

Charles glanced at his bed—at the new linens Erik had brought him—and adrenaline shot down his back. He didn’t need to lift the fence with a random tool. What he needed was leverage.

Charles ripped his new sheets off the mattress. He grabbed the ends, tying each to one another. He snatched up the quilt and throw blanket. He bound it all together until he was left with a long, knotted rope.

Piling the fabric into his lap, he rolled into the kitchen. He grabbed the frying pan and tied it to one end of the sheet-rope. He peered up.

With a single move, Charles pitched the pan into the air. Clashing into one of the pipes with a thunderous _clap_ , it bounced away, almost falling back on his head. Charles tried again. Again, he missed. Licking his lips, he eyed his target. He swayed the frying pan back and forth.

He tossed it again. Barely missing the lowest pipe, the pan soared over it—

Gripping the sheet-rope, Charles took up the slack; the pan lowered to the dining room table. He studied the image before him. The rope was draped over the piping like he was trying to make a tire swing. 

Holding the free end of the knotted sheets, Charles rolled himself backwards until he reached the center of the archway leading to Cerebro. He rotated himself around, and then weaved the rope through the bottom of the fence, tying it to the diamond-shaped wires. He returned to the table. He snatched up the pan, put it in his lap, and wrapped the rope around his right hand.

Then with both hands, he _pulled._

With all his strength, he gripped the rope, forcing it towards himself. The sheets tightened, the fabric strained. Face flushing, Charles continued fighting with it. Across the fence, the wires vibrated like someone strumming strings on a poorly-made violin. 

Charles put all his weight into it. His body raised off his seat. Underneath him, his wheelchair tilted, his feet wobbling on their footplates.

Charles didn't let go. 

Across the fence, however, the metal hardly budged. Sweat beaded on Charles' forehead. Above him, his hands were red, the knuckles white. They shook as he forced them to do as he commanded.

_Lift it. Lift the damn thing._

Despite his diligence, neither the rope nor fence heard him. Gasping, Charles' arms finally gave out. The rope loosened from his fingers; as he dropped onto his seat, the wheelchair almost toppling to its side. Steadying himself, Charles bent over. He curled his hands into fists as the fingers spasmed. 

Struggling for a breath, Charles re-positioned his feet and then wheeled himself to the fence. He examined the wires. Around the knotted sheet, the perfect diamond shapes were crushed. Off the floor, however, the fence had moved up less than an inch.

Charles leaned his head back.

He couldn't cut the wires; he couldn't lift the fence. Just a few feet away laid his possible freedom—Cerebro. And he couldn't reach it.

_Rap-rap._

Charles paused. Narrowing his eyebrows, he peered at the ceiling.

_Rap-rap._

Coming from above, the noise was subtle, like the sound of a house settling. The hair on his arms bristled. 

“Damn pipes,” Charles muttered. This place really was getting to him.

Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the issue at hand. No more negative thinking. There was a solution; he just wasn’t viewing the full picture. On that thought, he glanced to the right.

At the edge of the archway, where the fencing met its end, that one little prong stuck out from the wall. Grabbing his handrims, Charles pulled himself to the fence's edge. He leaned over, gliding his hand across the piece of metal. It was only about three inches long.

Charles examined the marble wall where the fence met stone. Then, he clasped his hands onto the wires.

He pulled.

The fence didn't even shake.

Charles rolled back to the dining room table. He untied the frying pan and placed it in his lap. He wheeled back to the fence. Staring at the single metal tip sticking out from the marble, Charles lifted the pan.

Like swinging a baseball bat, he struck the wall. Once—twice—again and again—and with each strike, the pan shook. The metal _clapped_ against stone, barely making a dent in the gray and green wall.

Barely. 

Bit by bit, however, the marble surrounding the prongs chipped. The surface became scratched, gray lines ruining its gloss. In Charles’ grasp, the pan curled in on itself.

Even as his hands grew numb, Charles didn't stop. Little specks at a time, the wall fell to his feet, most of the pieces no bigger than grains of sand on a beach.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

_“Two little boys had two little toys. Each had a wooden horse.”_

With a voice not much louder than a whisper, Charles continued singing. He didn’t particularly like to sing and other people liked it even less. As he slammed a kitchen pot into the wall, he sang regardless. Each time he paused, each time he swung away, the base was quiet.

The singing was better. Anything was better.

Over a day had passed. Charles arms ached; his fingers were bruised. He had forced himself to stop only to eat, sleep and cath, although all that wasted time was infuriating. Every second he wasn't gutting the wall, it was one less he was granted for escape. 

In front of him, the marble was a disaster. A pile of sawdust-like debris had collected on the floor; it stung his nostrils and hinted of mildew. But he had made progress. Ten prongs had been ripped from the wall. He was working on number eleven and twelve. 

With any luck, that might be enough.

As Charles crashed the kitchen pot into the stone one last time, he inspected the cavity he had created. At its edge, the prongs had become partially visible. He dropped the pot to the floor and retrieved a butter knife from his lap. He pried at the fence.

_“When we grow up we’ll both be soldiers_ ,” Charles sang to himself. “ _And our horses will not be toys.”_

The first four or five wires he'd popped out, he'd almost broken his fingers; now, he was becoming a pro.

Charles stopped singing. 

Shimmying the knife between the rock and metal, he pulled back. The metal slid from the stone, both prongs detaching. A day’s worth of work. Now it was time to test the results.

He grabbed his sheet rope. He tied it to the end of the fence where he had dislodged the metal from the wall. At the dining room table, he wrapped the rope around his hands again. Then, as hard as he could, he pulled down.

The rope tightened as before; the metal shook. But now, there was give. 

Slowly, the bottom of the fence lifted from the wall, curving upwards. Just as before, Charles put his weight into it; nonetheless, the fence was still a stubborn creature, and soon, any leeway it offered diminished. 

Panting, Charles lowered himself back into his chair, and then tied the rope to one of the table's legs. He rolled forward. As he approached the wall, a deep sense of relief coursed through his body. Like a lid from a can, the fence wasn’t so much lifted as peeled away from the stone. It wasn't a large opening—just wide enough for someone to slide through. That was all he could hope for.

Charles maneuvered his wheelchair as close to the cavity as possible and slid his body to the floor. Then, lying on his stomach, he began to drag himself through the opening. Marble debris mushroomed in the air. Charles coughed; his eyes watered. Using his arms, he forced himself forward on his belly, past the wires that had caged him for a week.

Then, the soft, ivory lights from the living area transformed into the darkness of Cerebro's spherical room. In front of him were the set of stairs that descended to the machine. Inhaling, Charles scooted his upper body over the first and second step. He reached the third. His hands clasped the edges; his arms propelled him forward. Behind him, his body dragged. 

Reaching the bottom, Charles used his right hand to heave the rest of himself away from the staircase. His legs spilled off the steps, and curled up to his stomach. He looked forward.

Before him stood Cerebro's platform. The half-circular design matched the old one at the research base, but as he lay on the ground, it better resembled a skyscraper now. Past the platform to the far right rested Cerebro's operating mainframe.

Charles lugged himself forward. As he reached the main console, he forced himself into a sitting position and then scooted to the console until his back pressed against its front.

He peered up.

From there, the mainframe's controls might as well have been a hundred miles away; he couldn't even see them. He scanned the room. Although dark, he still detected the grainy shine off the wall panels. Near the floor, a rim of marble lined the room. There were pieces of junk near the doorway—a few small wooden boxes of scrap metal, perhaps used for constructing Cerebro.

Something in there could be used a reaching tool, possibly. That might work well enough for Cerebro’s levers, but the machine’s knobs? He’d have to turn those by hand. 

He still needed height.

Rolling back to his stomach, Charles placed his hands on the floor, and then slid across its surface. Reaching the doorway, he examined the boxes. Most were made of cheap wood; a five-year-old could sit on them and they’d crack. There was only one exception. Not much taller than a stepping stool, the crate was still a cheap piece of trash, but the wood was just a little thicker. Just a little more sturdy. It’d have to do.

Dumping the metal from its insides, Charles gave the crate one good shove towards Cerebro before dropping back to his belly. He followed behind, scooting himself as he went. 

Several minutes passed, and as Charles finally pushed the box underneath the mainframe, he lowered his head, his lungs begging for air. Sweat rolled down the bridge of his nose. How idiotically simple all of this would have been if he merely had use of his legs. 

Sucking in one last breath, Charles brushed that thought aside and set back to work. He planted his right palm to the top of the crate—the other on the ground. Then, he forced his body upwards. Gritting his teeth, he transferred onto the top of the crate the same way he would his wheelchair.

He peeked up at the switches, knobs and levers that made up the console, now just visible from where he was sitting. Stretching out his hands, he grabbed at the machine’s controls.

Erik's Cerebro was almost an exact replica Hank's, and Hank had shown Charles how that machine operated at the research facility. As Charles surveyed the console, however, one thing was clear—he still wasn’t tall enough. Some controls were right at his fingertips, but others—including the main power lever—those were out of reach.

Or, better put, out of _his_ reach.

Squinting his eyes shut, Charles brought his arms back to himself.

God, it was pathetic, really. With all the power he possessed—everything he could do with his mind—he was being defeated by a couple plastic knobs and levers. 

He lowered his head to the edge of the console. Around him, quiet encompassed the base again. Deafening—maddening…

_Rap-rap._

Charles opened his eyes. Slowly, he looked up at the ceiling. 

_Rap-rap._

The noise was louder now, almost like footfalls. Warily, Charles focused his mind and shot his telepathy upwards. It was a void, of course. Even Emma Frost couldn’t hide from his senses. That left only one possibility.

“Erik?” he called. 

Nothing.

He waited a second more. No one answered. Instead, more footfalls tapped. As innocent as a child’s and just as elusive. Rodents? It didn’t sound like rodents.

A shiver rushed up Charles’ back; he placed his fingers to his temple. He concentrated again. _Hello?_ he called through his telepathy.

More rapping—louder now. Not rats.

_Hello?_

Then, like a whisper caught on a breeze, he heard it.

“… _Charles?_...”

A gasp wormed its way up his throat.

“… _Charles_ …”

He recognized the voice. That soft, sweet sound—at any other time, it would have been so lovely to hear. 

Moira.

“No,” he sputtered out and shut his eyes. 

It wasn’t real. His telepathy sensed no life; he was alone. The noises—Moira’s voice…it was his mind playing tricks on him. Like a man dying in a desert and spotting a mirage, his brain was starved to sense something beyond itself. And he possessed nothing to nourish it.

“All right,” he said. “It’s all right. Everything’s all right.”

He needed to stay focused. He was good at that. He could do this; noises be damned. 

As the _rapping_ continued, Charles brought his attention back to Cerebro. The crate below him was as tall as any of the others by the doorway; there was nothing else in the room to prop himself on. Perhaps he should go back into the living area. He could continue ripping the fence from the wall, enough to slide his wheelchair through—

No. He’d have to pull over half the metal prongs to make room for his chair. It would take another day at least. That left him with one final choice.

With a grimace, Charles planted his left hand to the crate’s edges. Slanting his weight towards his left arm, he lowered his right hand to his right side. He grabbed his ankle and raised his right leg. Across his left side, his body shook, his weight bearing down. If he slipped, he'd collapse off the crate. He could break his arm or hip. And Erik wouldn't be back for another day at least.

_Rap-rap._

“Stop,” Charles groaned. “Please, just stop.”

He tucked his right foot underneath himself. Then, with strained arms, he gripped the crate’s right side, and performed the same maneuver with his left leg.

Charles peered down. On the crate, he was sitting on his legs, his calves underneath his thighs, supporting all his weight. 

He lifted his right arm. He groped for anything—a knob, a switch—something sturdy enough to lift him. On the console, there was a slight indention where a few levers met the power circuits. As his fingers found it, he latched on.

Then with one swift move, he wrenched his left hand up. It found the indention almost instantly. Beneath him, his right leg twitched; Charles shot a glare downwards. 

“Don’t,” he muttered as if it would help. “Don’t you dare. Not _now._ ”

Like it was challenging his command, the leg continued to tremble. If it grew more uncomfortable, the spasms might knock him right off the crate. Clenching his jaw, Charles summoned all his strength and _pulled_. His biceps tensed, the muscles burning like there was a fire underneath his skin. He forced his body to lift. His thighs left his calves, rising. 

Under him, the wooden crate titled forward just slightly.

His left hand clutching the console, Charles labored for a breath. He heaved his right arm forward. The power switch rested only an inch from his fingertips; he just needed a little more height. Just a little more leverage.

"Please," Charles gasped as he stretched his arm to its breaking point. "Please, for God's sake—"

It happened so quickly, Charles didn't have a chance to react. Underneath him, the wooden crate gave way. The top of it flipped forward; his legs slammed into Cerebro. Charles collapsed, his chin striking the edge of the mainframe before his body toppled to the floor. 

Then, there was nothing. Eyes closed, Charles’ breathing became as deep as if he were sleeping. Then, with a jerk, he coughed. A splatter of blood spat from his mouth and landed on the floor. Charles cupped his right hand over his lips. The blood tasted bitter on his tongue; he could practically smell the injury. From the inner part of his mouth, a stinging pain throbbed deep enough to resonate throughout his jaw line.

Groaning, Charles held his lip until the bleeding subsided. As it did, the pain gradually calmed, leaving the area almost numb. Removing his hand, Charles gazed upwards.

Across Cerebro—throughout the entire base—everything had quieted again. The soft glow from the other side of the fence gently glinted in Charles' eyes. It was peaceful, the other side of the fence. Comforting. Inviting. 

“… _Charles?_...” Moira called as if her voice was a part of the walls. “… _You’re tired, Charles_ …”

On the ceiling directly above him, the gray panels appeared almost black, the wires from the headband meeting at the sphere's center. Off to the far right, there was one more set of cording; Charles hadn't noticed it before.

As he focused, a dark revelation consumed him.

It wasn't a set of wires; it was a single, thick cord. Bigger than one of Charles' arm, it spanned half the length of the sphere, starting at Cerebro's motherboard and then meeting with the ceiling. 

At the ceiling, it was detached—hanging by a couple pieces of metal.

Cerebro's power cord.

As if on its own, a wave of laughter rolled up Charles' throat. His lips quivered as the laughter escaped him; his eyes blurred and then a set of tears fell down the sides of his face.

Erik really had thought of everything. 

“… _I’m here, Charles_ …” Moira called again.

As swiftly as it came, the laughter soured, and suddenly, Charles felt as if someone was pushing all their weight onto his chest. Gasping, his arms trembled and his hands balled into fists.

Then, with a burst of anger, Charles slammed his left hand into the side of Cerebro's mainframe. The metal screamed in protest; the panel dented. Slowly, Charles retracted his hand, and turned his attention to the side panel, now caved in where he had struck it.

He sat up. He ran his hand across the damaged metal. Then, he dug his fingertips into the edge of the metal plate. It popped off the mainframe as easily as removing the lid from a jar. Charles stared at the image before him.

Copper circuit boards were linked together with blue and gray wires. There were transformers and tubes, and everything else that made up Cerebro. The gut of the monster.

Without another thought, Charles reached his hand into the panel's opening. He started ripping into Cerebro's insides, tossing the parts aside like pieces of trash.

**End of Chapter**


	20. Chapter 20

_Okay, I'm going to assume there are still people reading this fan fiction on here. So here's chapter 20--to whoever's out there, enjoy._

  
**Chapter 20**   


Crashing. Metal against stone—glass against metal. As Erik entered the island base, the morning's sunlight brightened Cerebro's dark room. He stood silently by the door, absorbing the scene before him. The marble floor that had been empty just a couple days before was now cloaked with debris. Broken wires. Cracked circuit boards. Shattered tubes. Dented metal.

To the left, Charles sat beside Cerebro's mainframe. As Erik closed the door behind him, his old friend met him with a glare. 

"Charles?" the name spilled from Erik’s mouth.

Eyes flared with rage, the other man didn't hesitate. Snatching up a half-busted circuit board from the floor, he whipped his arm back—

The green piece of plastic went flying. Spinning in the air like a Frisbee, it soared directly towards Erik's head. He barely had time to duck before the thing whisked by his helmet and smacked into the wall behind him.

Charles turned his attention back to the mainframe, his fingers burrowing into its insides like a starving man ripping apart a loaf of bread. That's when the reality finally sunk in. Erik rushed to the other man. Leeching his hands underneath Charles’ armpits, he dragged him away from the machine.

Immediately, Charles fought back. Screaming protests, he thrashed his arms, grabbing at anything he could find. His left hand ripped Erik's shirt pocket as Erik forced him towards Cerebro's platform. Pushing his friend into its metal support beams, Erik latched onto Charles' arms.

"What have you done?" Erik shouted, shaking the other man as if he was a disobedient child.

Charles gripped Erik's collar. And then both men were screaming at each other. Their voices resonated off of Cerebro's spherical room, practically quaking its walls.

Erik's face felt hot enough to blister. His voice cracked as if his throat was caving in on itself. Beyond the rage, however, Erik felt a cold sweat starting to consume his body. Did Charles even realize what he'd done? 

But the screaming continued, and after another minute, Erik had enough. With one final shove, he released Charles. Clumsily, the other man dropped to his hands and elbows on the floor, but that didn’t dull his glare. Erik stood, perspiration streaming down his face.

He observed the chaos before him. The metal panels that had covered Cerebro's internal processors had been pried off. Inside the machine, torn wires, cracked circuit boards and transformers laid in piles. Glass, plastic, and metal littered the floor like there had been an explosion.

The machine was destroyed.

Stepping to Cerebro's console, Erik clutched both his hands on the controls. The only pieces that survived at all were the ones Charles simply couldn't reach. He had torn everything else to shreds.

"It's gone, Erik," Charles said from behind him. "It's gone."

Around them, Erik felt his powers react. Above, a deep hum shuttered across the wall panels. On the floor, the metal debris quivered as if in fear. The fence vibrated, some of the wires breaking apart like someone snapping stray threads from their clothing.

Erik leaned over, getting a hold of himself. He peered at the floor—at the mess at his feet—and took in some long, deep breaths.

That's when he noticed it. In the midst of broken tubes and wires, a touch of crimson glinted off the distant lights of the living area. Around the base, the metal calmed; the humming quieted.

Erik turned back to Charles. As he rested against the platform, his friend’s glare had cooled and now only exhaustion lingered. There were rings under his eyes. His hair hadn't been washed in days and his face donned something between a thick five o'clock shadow and the start of a beard. 

On his bottom lip, there was swelling.

Erik moved away from the machine. He knelt down to Charles, cupping his right hand to his friend's jaw and inspecting the injury. "What hap—?" 

"I cut my lip," the other man said as he jerked his head away.

"Does it need stitches?"

"And what difference would that make? Are you intending to pull out a needle and take care of it yourself?"

Erik just stared at him.

With a roll of his eyes, Charles replied, "No. I don't believe so."

Then, as if disgusted, Charles averted his gaze. Slowly, Erik’s eyes left his friend and tracked the floor. Next to him, Charles' legs were cloaked in dirt and stains from the marble and the machine. A smell whiffed off him that reminded Erik of a rusted old car.

Charles sat in a pile of the machine's wreckage, from snapped wires to shards of glass.

Erik raised a hand. Across the floor, the metal heard his call; as he swayed his arm, the pieces were swept to the outskirts of the room, ushering most of the plastic and glass with it.

Then, Erik grabbed a hold of Charles' legs. He draped an arm across his friend's back and lifted the other man from the wreckage. Charles didn't protest. With his friend in his arms, Erik parted the fence and marched up the stairs to the living area.

Gently, Erik placed Charles back onto his bed. The other man dropped his head on the pillow, his eyes glazed over. Sitting on the mattress' edge, Erik stared at his old friend. Or what was left of him. The man before him hardly resembled the Charles Xavier he had known. 

After a minute, Erik said, "Tell me this, Charles, did you actually have a plan when you started tearing that machine to pieces? Or were you simply having a tantrum?"

Charles seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then, he replied, "Perhaps…both."

Erik placed a hand on his helmet. The consequences of that morning—when the other mutants found out…

"What do you think will happen now?" Erik asked. "Do you think this will be the end of it?"

Charles angled his gaze to the ceiling and something shifted on his face. Erik recognized it immediately; only Charles could pull it off with such conviction. Hope. 

"It seems to me," Charles said, "that you have a decision to make, Erik. You and your brotherhood can either spend the next several weeks reconstructing what you lost, or you can accept it and return me home."

Erik frowned. "You really think that's going to happen?"

"Well…if nothing more, no one will be operating Cerebro for quite some time." Charles cocked an eyebrow at him. "Will they?"

As Erik threw a glance over his shoulder at what was left of the machine; his stomach tightened. No, no one would be using Cerebro, that was certain. But now, Erik was going to have to explain that to the others. And he had a grave suspicion their reactions wouldn't be as kind as his.

  
**End of Chapter**  



	21. Chapter 21

Somewhere between skimming CIA files, rummaging through distributor paperwork and scratching out false leads, Moira had fallen asleep. One leg dangling over the sofa, she lay with folders tucked underneath her and papers slumped across her stomach. She snored lightly.

Moira didn’t notice the gentle rapping on her apartment’s front door. She didn’t hear the knob unlocking. No, it wasn’t until she heard her name directly over her head that her mind finally registered anything at all.

“Moira?”

Her eyes snapped open; above her, a face peered down. With a scream, she jerked up. Papers collapsed off her like snow off the side of a house.

Levene’s reaction was no better. Releasing a yelp, the man stumbled away, almost dropping the mound of paperwork in his grasp.

“God!” he shouted. “It’s just me, Moira!”

Gasping, Moira exclaimed, “How did you get in here?”

Levene motioned his eyes to a set of keys dangling off his point finger. “You gave me a spare, remember?”

Sliding her feet off the sofa, Moira allowed the last bits of paper to topple.

In front of her, Levene stood in his black and white business suit, his thick-rimmed glasses not hiding the bewilderment in his gaze. He surveyed the place like it belonged to a serial killer. "Jesus, Moira—obsessing just a bit? "

Nodding to the files in Levene’s arms, Moira’s asked, “Is that what I think it is?”

Levene turned his attention back to her. "We're all going to be hanged for this,” he said and dropped the stack of papers to Moira's sofa. "You can thank Hadley and Forman for them. They spent almost all day and night tracking down that supply list of yours."

"And the other thing?" 

Levene hunched over like she'd just dropped a fifty pound weight on his back. Lifting the top folder away, he handed it to her. "You owe me big. Like, a trip to Europe, big."

Moira opened the folder. Inside were a few pieces of paper. 

"You're lucky," Levene said. "McCone’s starting to notice some of his files are MIA. I was able to sneak that part out while Forman distracted his secretary."

Levene was right; it wasn't the entire file. But it was what Moira needed.

A list of locations—every known location the CIA had found for Sebastian Shaw. 

"He seems to like warm climates," Levene pointed out. "Argentina. Florida. Hell, he even had a place in Cairo once. The only time he ever went any place below sixty degrees, it was out of necessity. "

“You are my savior, Levene.” Hopping over the mound of papers across her floor, Moira retrieved her list of pharmaceutical suppliers and then began hunting for her pen.

"Uh," Levene motioned his point finger to her head, “behind your ear, sweetheart."

Offering Levene a little smile, Moira slipped the pen from the side of her head and got to work. She started circling locations of interest. Erik wasn't stupid; he'd never use a base the CIA knew about. But the CIA didn't know all of them. For Erik not to use resources left by Shaw would be a waste, and Erik was not the wasteful type. 

Now all she had to do was read through the rest of the information Levene had brought her. If she could find a correlation between the pharmaceutical supplies, plus Cerebro's, and then match with a region that would fit Shaw's profile, she might be onto something. If only Hank would call her back—

“I can’t help you anymore,” Levene said. 

Moira peeked up. Levene’s expression teetered between tired and reluctant, like he didn’t want to speak but was too exhausted to fight anymore. “I’m sorry,” he continued, “but I’ve already risked my job getting you all this stuff. I can’t do it anymore.”

“I understand,” she replied. “Thank you. I couldn’t ask for a better partner in crime.”

Moira was hoping for at least a tiny grin. Instead, Levene shifted his legs nervously, clearly wishing to say more. Finally, he asked, "What's this really about?" 

That wasn’t a question Moira was willing to answer. “Don’t worry yourself with that, okay?” 

“It’s for _them_ , isn’t it?” 

Moira’s pen remained idle in her hands. After a moment, she replied, “Would it make a difference if it was?”

Levene glanced away. Fixing his hands on his hips, he said, "Just answer me this. Why are you so hell-bent on helping them? You almost got killed the last time.”

“Come on, Levene. You know the CIA won’t be able to hide this ‘mutant phenomenon’ for long. What do you think will happen when the world discovers their existence? If we’re not careful, there could be a war. And I’m not so certain we’ll be on the winning side.”

Levene dropped his arms from his waist. He gawked at the paperwork across the carpet like it might bite him. 

With that, Moira continued, “Stryker and people like him…they’re dangerous. Far more than a telepathic scholar. We need to protect our allies, and whether or not McCone and the others want to admit it, Charles Xavier and his group of mutants are exactly that. You really want to make them our enemies?”

The exhaustion on Levene’s face darkened. “This isn’t the end of it,” he muttered as if to himself.

Moira shook her head. “No. It’s just the beginning.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Charles slept. Erik hadn’t been gone more than a few minutes before darkness curled in around him; he was still cloaked in dust and debris, and even a few different types of oil from Cerebro. His bed sheets still dangled from the ceiling. 

He smelled bad. He felt worse. 

Nonetheless, he slept like it he hadn’t closed his eyes for a year. 

He dreamed. He hadn’t recalled dreaming in months—not a real one. He had moments when he snapped awake, thinking about his physical therapy, his mansion’s renovations, or the plans for the school. He had contractors to call; he had rehab to do. 

Within Erik’s island prison, those dreams had all but vanished.

The world dwelled in gray—like being in the midst of fog that swallowed up every bit of color around it. It was neither warm nor cold there. It was neither good nor bad. It just _was_. Existence. Life. A mix of everything that created humanity, blended together.

Noises. Little whispers within the fog—minds roaming with ideas and emotions, and he absorbed it all. He was a part of it. He was a part of them, if only for a brief instant.

And there, he was free.

The base’s door opened and Charles jerked awake. The soft gray brightened to the ceiling’s amber lights; his mind closed back on itself like someone was putting a bag over his head. By the bed rested his wheelchair where Erik had brought it to him before Charles had fallen asleep.

From the entrance behind Cerebro, Erik entered. His bright red shirt almost appeared maroon inside the dark room—his cape almost as black as night. He trudged to the fence and it parted for him as he passed. He stepped into the main living area.

Charles sat up. He threw a glimpse downwards, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t cathed himself before collapsing into bed. But there was nothing. He barely had anything to drink in two days, and for once, that was a good thing.

Erik approached him. He held his head high, but his stride was slow. Charles knew what it meant. “I see you’ve made a decision,” Charles said as the other man reached his bedside.

Erik’s expression remained impassive. “I have.”

“What say you?”

Erik reached into his shirt’s pocket. Something rattled. Slowly, he pulled out a long, silver chain; it shimmered in the base’s lights like a piece of jewelry. At both ends, cuffs dangled. They clapped together as Erik held them in his grasp.

Charles’ mouth dropped. Across his upper body, every muscle tensed like needles were being stabbed into each one. He gazed up at his old friend and knew he wanted to say something. But he couldn’t find any words to do so.

“Get up,” Erik said. “Go to the bathroom—get yourself clean. Shave your face. We have work that needs to be finished and we can’t afford any more delays.” He paused, shifting his eyes between the cuffs and Charles; his face sombered. “I’m sorry.”

Charles waited a moment for his friend to return to his senses. It didn’t happen. Blankly, Charles extended his hand and grabbed his wheelchair’s armrest. He transferred himself off the bed, manually positioned his feet in his footplates, and then went into the bathroom. 

Half an hour passed like it was nothing. When Charles returned, his hair was wet; the new clothes he’d wiggled on were sticking to his damp body. By the sofa, Erik stood, the handcuffs at the ready.

By the bed, Charles slid his hands to his lap, linking his fingers together. Erik marched up to him and then knelt down by the chair.

“I never wanted this,” he said as he cuffed the chain to Charles’ left armrest. “But you’ve left me with no other choice.”

“You’d like to believe that,” Charles whispered.

Erik didn’t react. Using his power, he squeezed the chair’s metal railing, tightening it so it couldn’t be detached. Then, he reached out his right hand to Charles, palm upwards. “Give me your wrist.”

Charles glared at the other man.

Erik’s face didn’t harden, but the determination was far more frightening than any anger the man might possess. “Now, Charles.”

One by one, Charles pried his fingers apart. He brought his arm up—

Without hesitation, Erik seized Charles’ wrist and then lifted the other end of the handcuffs. He snaked the metal band across Charles’ skin, clicking the restraint into place. 

When Erik finally looked up, guilt traced his features.

“It’s only when I’m not here,” he said. “I can't have you destroying the wall panels, or getting into places you shouldn't be again." 

Charles didn't bother replying. 

Erik stood up. He peeked at his new wristwatch. Minutes passed in silence; Erik loitered there with his back turned, his purple cape masking him like a theater curtain from Charles’ gaze. Then, something red flashed.

Charles felt it more than saw it. Beside Cerebro’s platform, there was a _shift_. He shot out his telepathy, but before he could even register what it was, he heard her.

“Keep it to yourself, sugar,” Emma Frost’s voice called from the middle of the sphere.

Beside her, there came another flash. Charles tried to focus his eyes, but he didn’t really need to see to know what it was. The teleporter, Azazel, was jumping in and out of the room. With each flash, another piece of Cerebro left with him.

As the realization dawned on him, Charles concentrated. 

“I told you not to do that,” Emma warned.

Then, from across Charles’ telepathic link, everything became distorted. It was like he was peering through a collection of fragmented glass just inches from his face. Emma stepped up into the main living area, her shimmery bodysuit glinting in the base’s soft lights. Behind her, Azazel continued teleporting, snatching up busted machinery as he went. 

Through her telepathy, Emma was protecting the teleporter, making sure Charles didn’t find an opportunity to lock on. Charles expanded his mind. He pushed it as far as he could towards the room. But Emma was there to block him. Wincing, he let out a breath and tried again. Each time was met with her crystal barrier, keeping him at bay.

From behind her, Azazel popped in and out of existence.

One flash.

Then another.

He had taken most of Cerebro with him.

“Don’t make this difficult on yourself,” Erik told him, clearly realizing what Charles was trying to do.

Nonetheless, Charles fired out his telepathy again. Perhaps it was useless; perhaps he was fooling himself. But he had to try. If he could grab a hold of Azazel’s mind, the teleporter could take him home. And this—all of this—would be done with.

Nonetheless, no matter how hard he tried to reach the teleporter’s mind, Emma was there to stop him. And as the last bit of Cerebro was consumed by red fog, Charles sank into his wheelchair. Another hope for escape—lost.

Both Emma and Erik seemed unfazed by it all. As she approached Erik’s side, he glanced at his watch again like they were running a tight schedule. Erik linked the metal fence back together with the ease of closing his hand.

Then, Erik’s eyes shifted to Charles. A look of pity suddenly masked them like Charles was something that needed to be put of its misery. “I’ll be back later,” Erik said. “Do yourself a favor and stop these futile attempts at escape. It’s not going to happen.”

Then, one last flash of red invaded the air. With it, all the mutants disappeared. Across the base, the only thing left of Cerebro were the metal panels across the walls and the platform in its center, making the spherical room as empty as a graveyard at night.

**End of Chapter**


	22. Chapter 22

On the _Cassandra_ , the other mutants swarmed around the broken pieces of Cerebro as soon as Magneto and the others returned from the base. Angel and Riptide teleported to the mainland to start hunting down supplies they'd need. They were all sick of the entire situation. They were angry. And one thing Erik knew for certain, you didn't want to upset a group of beings capable of creating whirlwinds or spitting fire from their mouths.

Charles didn't even realize what danger he'd put himself in. 

That night, Erik found himself in front of the base’s steel door again. Within his magnetic grasp, the door unlocked and crept open. He stepped inside. Debris was still piled up beside the walls. Erik walked to the stairs, and with each step, his legs felt too tired to trudge on to the next one.

Charles sat beside his bed. His right arm laid on top of the mattress, the long chain connected to it dangling down to his wheelchair. He didn't bother turning as Erik approached. His fingers played with one of the bed sheets that he'd obviously slid down from the ceiling sometime that day, the fabric wrinkled from all the knots.

Stopping just a foot away, Erik peered down at his friend. "You need to get ready for bed now."

Charles gripped one of the sheets. "Come to tuck me in, did you?"

"Don't get cute with me. Just do as I've asked."

"How long do I have?"

Erik blinked. He considered Charles' words and then closed his eyes. "You destroyed most of the main control boards, but everything else is still salvageable. We should have Cerebro reconstructed in about a week."

"And what then, Erik? After you reconstruct it, what do you intend to do then?"

Erik sighed.

"Will you force me onto that machine? Torture me until I concede?"

Erik frowned. "I don't wish any of that on you." 

“But it will come to that, yes? If I refuse…" Charles trailed off. He licked his lips, blinking his eyes as if a realization had just struck him. 

With that, Erik leaned forward, resting his hands on Charles' armrests. Across Erik’s brow, the sweat was beading. In his chest, his heart raced. He knew Charles was right; Erik had no other option left. Charles wouldn't give in—he simply wouldn't. The reasons no longer mattered.

"Yes," Erik spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "If things continue this way, it will most likely come to that."

Laying his hands in his lap, Charles lifted his chin. Something glinted in his eyes. It was barely detectable; someone who didn't know him well might not have detected it. Erik recognized it instantly. Not because he'd ever seen the look on Charles' face. It was because Erik had seen it reflected on his own.

A deep, quiet anger. Hinting at the edges of Charles' gaze.

The room seemed to cool. 

And then Charles declared, "Your Nazi brothers would be so proud of you, Erik."

Erik froze in place. Charles' words shot through him, each one feeling like a spear into his chest. As if on its own, Erik’s power focused. Above them, the lights started to shake. In the kitchen, the metal hinges and knobs began to rattle like something was trapped inside the cabinets and wanted desperately to get out. 

Charles didn't react. He kept his glare to Erik, that cold, dark anger making his blue eyes appear almost demonic. 

Erik dropped his gaze. The lights stopped shaking; the cabinets were silenced. Slowly, he stood upright again. Using his power, he unfastened Charles' handcuff from his wrist, and then said quietly, "Get ready for bed. It's getting late and I need to get back."

Charles didn't protest. Slipping his hand out of the unlocked cuff, he grabbed the handrims to his wheelchair and set off towards the bathroom. The door opened and closed, and as everything quieted again, Erik sat on the edge of his friend's bed. Across the room, the darkened remains of Cerebro sat, hollowed out—soon to be reactivated again.

One week.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It happened, and for a time, Moira wondered if it would. Her phone was ringing, and as Moira yanked the receiver off the base, she heard the deep voice of Hank McCoy on the other end. Before he could talk, however, Moira was already prepared.

"Where the hell have you been?" she shouted. "I have been waiting to hear from you for days now!"

"I'm—I'm sorry," Hank said, his voice sounding a little hurt. "We've been hunting down leads."

"Well, so have I! You think it might be a good idea to put that information together and see what comes out of it?"

"We were on the road, Moira."

"It's called a pay phone, Hank!"

"I'm calling from a pay phone right now."

That gave her pause. Sinking into her sofa, Moira got a hold of herself. "Where are you?" she asked.

"The west coast," the man replied. "I found some leads for Cerebro."

"I've been looking at all the components required for that machine, Hank. There's thousands of them."

"You don't need to search all of them. Just the most unique ones."

Moira blinked a few times. "You know them?"

The other man released a laugh. "Of course I do. I designed the thing."

With that, Moira hunched over a little.

Hank continued on, "Cerebro requires a certain type of tuning coil for the amplifiers to get the right amount of current to enhance Charles' telepathy. Anything else, and the machine will be as useful as a four-story paperweight. It's the stuff NASA uses on their rocket planes to communicate with ground control."

"Who makes them?"

"They're custom-ordered. But there's a couple different companies capable of manufacturing them. One in New York—another in Colorado—a place in Houston. And one in California."

Moira tensed, her joints practically locking in place. The question reached her tongue and it tasted sweet on her palette. "Where was the last order made?"

"San Francisco. Six weeks ago."

Warmth flooded through Moira’s body as if she'd been freezing for days and was suddenly given a blanket.

"The order was picked up by hand," Hank went on. "And paid for in cash. Not exactly NASA's style."

"Is that where you are right now?" 

"The Golden Gate Bridge is really a sight, you know."

Resting her free hand on her forehead, Moira laughed to herself. "You know what, I never should have questioned your investigating skills."

"Huh?"

Moira let her laughter cool, and then got back to business. "Anything else?"

"We're following up leads for the remaining components for Cerebro. The next stop is Los Angeles.”

"Hank, start looking for boats."

Again, there came another, "Huh?"

"Erik can't keep Charles around any type of civilization. Not with his telepathy. Shaw owned ships. Yachts, specifically. He loved the things. Wherever you're heading, start asking if there are any yachts that have been out to sea for weeks."

Again, Hank laughed. "I knew it was a good idea to bring you into this."

Moira caught her breath. She knew, as soon as she got Hank on the phone, that she'd tell him this—now was as good a time as any. "I'm leaving."

"What?"

"I'm coming to meet you. Tell me where you are and I'll—"

"No—no. This is dangerous, Moira. I can't let you do that."

Moira glared as if Hank could see. "Why? You think I can’t take care of myself?"

"Against a pack of anti-human beings with the ability to melt your brain with a single thought? Yes, Moira, that actually makes me a little concerned for your safety."

"I'm coming out there."

"Please don't."

"I am."

"Moira, I—I can't have you endanger yourself. Thank you for everything you've done, but please let us handle the heavy-lifting out here. We'll keep you updated. Okay?"

On those words, Moira slammed the phone down. She got up. Hopping over the loads of papers and folders scattered across her apartment, she opened her coat closet and snatched up a jacket and tote bag. 

Within five minutes, she was packed up. Shutting off her living room's light, Moira left her apartment and hurried to her car.

**End of Chapter**


	23. Chapter 23

Five days came and went, and with each one, Charles felt as if he was becoming a part of the walls surrounding him. Erik arrived in the mornings to unchain Charles from his bed frame and allowed him to get ready for the day before chaining him back to his wheelchair when he left. The same routine occurred at night. Nonetheless, neither man spoke more than two words to one another during their time together. 

They knew what was coming. At that moment, Erik's brotherhood was reconstructing the machine. They would be finished within a few days, and then Erik would do what he believed was necessary to bring more mutants to his cause.

The man had become the weapon Charles had feared he'd be.

It was late morning when the door behind Cerebro opened for the second time that day. Sitting in the living room, Charles turned his attention to Erik as the man entered, and knew instantly that things weren't right.

From the dark room, Erik lifted his hand and the door closed behind him.

"We need to start installing Cerebro's main processors," the other man explained, his face hidden in the dark room. "It'll take a couple hours."

The statement sounded so simple, but as Erik lumbered up the steps into the living area, Charles knew things would not be that easy. Not with his telepathy; Erik wouldn't risk it.

"We considered moving you to the yacht," Erik said as he came to the coffee table, "but then we'd have to teleport everyone back and forth, and with your abilities…this is much simpler, my friend."

From the back of his cape, Erik withdrew his right hand. In it, a syringe.

"It's a mild sedative," Erik explained. "It'll merely put you to sleep for awhile."

When he first woke in the base, Charles' reaction might have been shock or even fear. As he sat chained to his wheelchair, he realized swiftly that what he felt was…nothing. 

"Go to the bathroom," Erik said and then the handcuff around Charles' wrist unlocked by itself.

Without protest, Charles followed Erik’s orders. A few minutes later, he reemerged and rolled himself to his bed. He transferred to the mattress, straightened his legs with his hands, and then lay back, resting his head on the pillow. 

Reaching his bedside, Erik knelt down.

“It’s just for a few hours,” he said.

Charles didn’t reply. Maybe there was no more shock to be had. Or maybe…he just didn’t care anymore.

Erik rolled up Charles' left sleeve, and then there was a sting. The drug burned his veins; Charles didn’t react. Erik slid the needle out and set the syringe on the end table by the bed. He slipped the cold metal of the handcuff to Charles' left wrist as if it was a force of habit now.

Within a minute, the world began collapsing. The dangling lights above Charles blurred together until it was just one, soft light. Then, the light vanished. As he lied on his bed, Charles' eyes closed into nothingness.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The dream returned. Gray fog swayed back and forth as if part of a wave. Other minds played there, blended with the gray; Charles couldn’t see them but he felt them. He was a part of them. Countless lives with hopes and ambitions. And there—in that place—he didn’t need his body.

"So, this is him, huh?" 

The voice filtered through like it was whisper from miles away that Charles still managed to hear. The gray faded. Something warm and rough clamped down on his jaw. 

“Real intimidating, Erik,” the voice continued, a faint Spanish accent seeping into the words. "I can see now what all this drama has been about.”

Charles’ head was jerked to the left. Then, the vise on his face was yanked away.

“Don’t touch him,” Erik hissed, his voice much louder than the other man’s.

Eyes still shut, Charles began to hear more. More voices—more people. There was chatter and the sound of people working. Footfalls stomped on the stone floor several feet away. 

Charles tried to open his eyelids, but they seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.

"Erik," Emma called from the other side of the room. "He's coming out of it."

Gripping the bed sheet laying on top of him, Charles released a groan; the drugs were finally starting to release him.

"How much time until we're finished installing this thing?" Erik asked.

Further away, Azazel replied, "At least ten minutes."

More voices, and then Erik said, "Can you monitor him while we finish up here?"

“You need to make it fast,” Emma replied.

Then, a heavy set of boots tramped away. From Cerebro, Charles heard as tools _clinked_ and _clanked_ against metal. Little bits of reality continued to creep through; he finally opened his eyes. His vision was blurry, the image before him tilting left and right like the world just couldn’t balance itself. Before him a figure towered with her white suit and big blonde hair.

In the distance, other figures were shuffling around. There was a man dressed in a violet suit; a figure of red and black stood beside him. A girl with ebony hair and a short skirt worked beside Cerebro’s platform. Erik, his helmet glinting from the lights above, stood by the main console—

One last image caught Charles, and as it did, he lifted his head from his pillow.

A figure of blue. Standing beside Erik, its curvy silhouette turned away from him.

A chill jostled up Charles’ back; with it, his vision finally found some focus.

“Raven?” he called, his voice almost unrecognizable even to him.

From Cerebro, a set of amber eyes flashed his way. The girl tensed as if trying to figure out what to do.

“ _Raven…?_ ” Charles called again.

At that, the blue-skinned girl nodded to Erik and then headed up the stairs. As she reached Charles’ bedside, she immediately leaned over him, her expression almost motherly.

“Hey,” she whispered and swept a hand through his hair. “How are you feeling?”

The words sounded so pleasant, for an instant Charles was taken back. Just earlier that year at Oxford, wrapping his arms around his sister one random evening as they walked home. Her sweet, young face had smiled at him then—a soft peach. He had smiled back.

Staring up at the girl before him, however, no smile curved his lips. As the other mutants continued reconstructing Cerebro, a dark revelation punched him like a fist to his stomach.

"You knew I was here?" Charles asked. “All this time?”

Immediately, Raven looked away as if trying to hide the guilt in her eyes.

Charles frowned at her. “Answer me.”

“It’s not as simple as that,” she explained. “Things just got complicated.”

“How could you do this? You knew what he’s been doing—what he’s planning and…” Charles trailed off. The world began tilting again.

Raven lowered her head to his chest. Her hands cradled his face, her fingers caressing his skin as if that alone could make everything right again. He didn’t react.

After a minute, the girl lifted her head. "Just…" She took in a breath. “Just do what he's asking, Charles. Please. Then, you can go home."

Inside, his heart felt like it was rotting. Gazing up at Raven—his sister—Charles realized the truth. 

"I don't know you anymore," he said. 

The girl’s mouth dropped, her voice silenced.

"Where's _my_ Raven?” Charles continued. “That sweet girl…who would never do anything like this."

Raven’s eyes brimmed with tears. For a heartbeat, Charles could see the hurt on her face—the telling signs that she understood the betrayal she’d committed against him. But before a single tear could fall, something shifted on her features. Her lips stopped trembling. She sucked in a breath, and then her expression closed down. In its place was a look Charles had never seen on her before. Hard. Cold. Emotionless.

"She never existed, Charles," she told him. "She was fake, just like the blonde hair. I'm sorry."

With that, the woman straightened up. She turned from him, her hands slipping away from his. On his bed, Charles’s gaze drifted to the ceiling. In his stomach, something stirred. It felt like shards of ice, eating away at everything he was. 

At his sides, Charles' hands tightened into fists.

"Don’t start,” Emma said. 

Across his telepathy, the woman’s crystal prison sprang up, again blocking Azazel and the others from his mind. This time, however, Charles didn’t aim his telepathy at any of them. Instead, he focused it at Emma. The other telepath didn’t expect it. She gasped. 

“Stop that,” Emma hissed.

Charles didn’t. Instead, he threw everything he had at the woman; with it, the crystal barrier cracked some. From behind her, Erik peeked up from Cerebro. With a curious look on his face, he started walking back into the living area.

“I said stop it!” Emma shouted.

Charles wouldn’t—he couldn’t. This was his last opportunity to escape and he could play mind games just as well as Emma could. As the drugs still warped his mind, he continued his attack. And then, like dropping a vase onto pavement, the crystal barrier shattered.

“Erik!” Emma shouted.

Charles shot his telepathy towards Azazel. The teleporter’s mind was there for the taking. Charles seized it.

Beside Cerebro’s platform, the red man froze in place. Charles saw him—felt him. He could see out of the other man’s eyes. Around Azazel, the other mutants gawked onwards like they didn’t understand what they were viewing.

The pain was swift. At Charles throat, a hand clasped down. With a gasp, Charles brought his free hand to his neck; he threw his gaze upwards.

Masked by the lights on the ceiling, Erik resembled a phantom.

“Let him go, Charles,” he ordered.

From Azazel’s vision, Charles saw himself. Erik hovered over him, his right hand gripping down. From his own body, Charles felt as the air couldn’t quite reach his lungs.

“I don’t want to do this,” Erik exclaimed. “Release him now, Charles!”

But Charles couldn’t release him. Azazel was his only chance for freedom. And as Charles sat in that windowless base with his wrist chained to a bed, there was nothing more he desired. Freedom—from all of it.

As the air refused to come, however, Charles’ mind unraveled. His telepathy weakened just enough, and then, the crystal barrier jumped back in place. From Cerebro, there came a sigh like someone waking from a nap.

Erik pulled his hand away. Immediately, Charles rolled to his side and coughed. His lungs were burning, his stomach rolling. He felt ready to pass out, and on that thought, he cupped his hands to his head as if that would help.

Around him, there was chatter. Erik barked an order to Azazel; the teleporter vanished and then reappeared a moment later. Emma hurried to him and then back to the living area; there was something in her hand now. She passed the item to Erik.

Erik didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Charles’ arm; there was a sting. With a gasp, Charles watched as Erik slid another needle out. The drugs worked swiftly, and within seconds, Charles dropped his head back to his pillow.

As if on their own, his eyes unfocused, the image of the other mutants merging with the darkness of Cerebro’s big, round room.

**End of Chapter**


	24. Chapter 24

It was mid-afternoon by the time Hank, Sean and Alex made it to their destination. In the driver’s seat of the rented Imperial, Alex was already pretty steamed; he had spent the last hour cursing at other cars like that would clear them from the road. Sitting beside him, Sean stuck his head out the window, taking in as much wind as bumper-to-bumper traffic would permit. It didn’t help that he was wearing his blue and yellow uniform. So was Alex and Hank.

Hank sat in the back, noticing with much dismay all the other drivers gawking at him like they’d just spotted big foot…which wasn’t too much of a stretch, he had to admit. This was the first time he’d been outside since Cuba, and he had to end up in the most infamous city in the country.

Los Angeles. It didn’t look as glamorous in person.

“Alex,” Hank said as he examined the road atlas, “could you take the next exit, please?”

"Might as well," the other man replied and did as instructed. 

They drove by the Century Plaza Hotel, passed the Beverly Hills High School, and up towards West Hollywood. Between the lavish hotels and finely designed homes, there was a lot more industry than Hank would have anticipated.

That’s when he noticed it. 

“There,” Hank said and pointed.

Alex slowed down and reached his hand out the window. Pointing it straight, he signaled to the other drivers behind him that he was turning left and then swung the Imperial that direction.

In front of them was the name Hank had been hoping to see since finishing up their leads in San Francisco and driving to L.A.

The Castlebrook Suppliers Warehouse.

They made custom electronics, and as it happened, included some interesting circuit resisters that matched exactly what Cerebro required. Someone had placed an order the same time as the tuning coils in San Francisco…and then, strangely another one a few days ago.

The order was ready for pick up that day.

Parking the car, Alex motioned his head towards the warehouse at the end of the lot. “You sure about this?” he said. “I mean, if Erik already has Cerebro up and running, why would he put in an order for more parts?”

Hank shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe the first batch was faulty. It’s irrelevant now. The order is for the same equipment and for the same quantity. It’s him. It has to be.”

“What about the boats?” Sean asked. “I mean, if Moira’s right—"

“If this doesn’t work out, then let’s start our hunt for ocean real estate," Hank said. "In the meantime, we should wait until the buyer comes to pick up their order. With any luck, he’ll have a big red helmet on his head.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Long Beach, California. Moira MacTaggert had already driven down the coast; she’d visited Santa Barbara, Ventura, and Oxnard, and still no leads had presented themselves. The way she was heading, she’d end up in Mexico soon.

That was frustrating enough. What was worse was the nagging feeling in her gut. Even if she managed to find Erik and his gang of mutants, what next? It was like coming into a fight where the opponent was armed with machine guns and she, a butter knife.

Wandering down one of the many marinas in Long Beach, Moira stopped at a small, wooden structure that better resembled a cabin instead of an office. On the door, only four words were painted—Docking Manager/Boating Supplies.

A bell jingled as Moira stepped inside. “Hello?” she called.

Around her, fishing gear cluttered the place. A vat of live bait sat close to the cash register, the dull brown glob that filled it smelling like something was rotting inside. On the walls hung dead fish, gutted, dried up and mounted on plaques like something that should leave her impressed rather than disgusted.

Trying to ignore the entourage of stench around her, Moira reached the cash register. “Hello?” she called again.

“I’m coming—these legs aren’t as fast as they used to be,” a raspy voice called from a backroom behind the register. With a sniffle, a heavy-set, copper-skinned man appeared from a door, a cigar clasped between his teeth. His eyes met Moira’s and underneath his graying beard, he offered a smile. “Well, hello, little lady. What brings you out here by your lonesome?”

Moira gave a polite smile back. “Actually, I was wondering if you could help me out. I have a problem and I’m getting a little desperate here.”

“For a cute thing like yourself, it’d be my pleasure, darling. What can I do you for?”

“I’m looking for a boat. A yacht, actually.”

“Hell, I’d like one of them myself.”

“This one belongs to an ex-boyfriend of mine. The rat cheated on me and then kidnapped my precious Charlie when I broke up with him.” 

The man yanked the cigar from his mouth. “What a bastard.”

“Yes,” Moira sighed, "that he is. He really, _really_ is.” Dramatically, she frowned and then peered down at the floor.

Playing the helpless girly type made Moira’s stomach churn. Nonetheless, it wasn’t entirely untrue; she did need help. She was desperate. And it wasn’t her fault the dock manager assumed Charlie was a pet instead of a human being. 

The stocky man reacted just as she hoped. His grin gone, he leaned forward, his eyes flooded with compassion. “What’s his name?” he said. “We’ve had some yachts coming through this marina. We’ll track him down.”

“That would be wonderful.” Moira lifted her head. “Unfortunately, the yacht is under an alias, and I don’t know what it…” She sniffled. “I just want my Charlie back!”

“Oh, sweetie—I’m sure we can figure it out. Do you know the model or year of the yacht?”

“No, but he loves taking it into deep water. Sometimes for weeks at a time. So…it’d be a yacht that might have docked here a while ago, but never docked here again. Or anywhere else along the California coast.” She gave the man a wary smile.

The magnitude of Moira’s request seemed to dawn on him. She wasn’t just asking him to go through his records—she was asking to match up any yachts that had passed through Long Beach but hadn’t made land anywhere else in months. It would take hours—if not the entire day.

“Oh, honey,” the man made a face like he just stubbed his toes, “that’s a lot to go through.”

Moira waited, hoping he would give in. When he didn’t move, she realized it was time for further incentive. Moira grabbed her purse from her shoulders. She pulled out her wallet and began rifling through the green bills in the folds. She’d already cleared out her bank account before she left, and had already spent half of her money on the flight and car rentals. She might as well go for broke.

But as the man saw her flipping through bills, he raised a hand. “Now—now, we don’t need any of that.” He shrugged his shoulders as if in defeat. “You sure it’s a yacht?”

Gingerly, Moira dropped her wallet back into her purse. “Yes, sir.”

“And you’re sure it’s still out to sea?”

“Pretty sure, yes.”

With that, the man snapped his fingers like an idea had sprung on him. “I’ll make some calls. See about the other docking ports in town. If it’s just yachts we’re looking for, then we should be able to get an idea where this bastard’s been.” 

The man yanked his phone from behind the register and started to make a call. Watching him, a smile curved again on Moira’s face. Maybe there was some humanity _in_ humanity after all.

**End of Chapter**


	25. Chapter 25

The other mutants had left hours before. Planted on the edge of Charles’ bed, Erik shifted his gaze between the unconscious man beside him and the machine on the opposite side of the room.

The main processors were rigged back in place. All the circuit boards had been installed; the main power cord was plugged into the ceiling. Only a few resisters were missing and those would take just minutes to hook up once the other mutants returned from the mainland. By tomorrow morning, Cerebro would be ready for use.

To everyone else, it was a weight off their shoulders. To Erik, however, it was like someone's arms were around him, squeezing him to death. He was the one who had to deal with Charles, to whatever extreme that definition would demand. He couldn't delegate the task to anyone else. Whatever Erik might do from necessity, someone like Riptide or Azazel would carry out for the sheer enjoyment.

From the bed, there came a groan. Erik drew his attention away from Cerebro and watched as his friend gradually found consciousness again. When his eyes flickered open minutes later, Charles’ gaze bumped into Erik’s. A frown instantly formed on his friend's face. 

“Get out,” Charles said, his voice cracking like he’d just eaten gravel.

Gently, Erik grabbed Charles’ cuffed left hand and lifted it into view. “It’s still a few hours until sundown,” he explained and with his power, uncuffed his friend’s wrist. “You need to get up—move around.”

Charles yanked his arm away.

“That was a foolish thing you attempted today,” Erik went on. “Did you honestly think I’d allow you to grab a hold of the teleporter's mind?”

“I was hoping to be away from this place before you made it to me.”

“Always the optimist, it seems.”

Insult contorted Charles' features. Tugging at his bed sheet, he covered himself up to his neck as if that would protect him. He rested there for a few minutes, obviously permitting the drugs to free his mind.

Pressing his lips together, Erik gestured a hand towards Charles’ wheelchair beside the end table; under his power, it glided towards the edge of the bed.

“Here,” Erik said. “Getting up should help.”

Charles remained motionless like he was sleeping with his eyes open.

“Don’t be stubborn.” Erik reached out a hand.

Wrenching his arm away before Erik could close his fingers around it, Charles sat up. Clumsily, he grabbed the side of his wheelchair, and began transferring himself over. Erik kept his hands away but guarded in case Charles began to topple. Heaving his body into his chair, Charles took a moment to steady himself.

Feet crooked on his footplates, Charles sat upright. The drugs made his eyes appear unfocused; nonetheless, as he rested his hands in his lap, he still managed to glare.

“All right,” he said and gestured to the cuffs. “Now, you can get out.”

Sliding the handcuffs off the mattress frame, Erik held them in his grasp and then nodded towards the bathroom. “Go ahead. I’ll wait here.”

“No. Just put on the damn cuffs and then leave me be.”

Erik shot a glance at the bed and then Charles. “You’ll be stuck in your wheelchair all night.”

“Then I’ll be stuck in my wheelchair all night.”

Dropping his head, Erik felt his stomach knot. It was so idiotic—Charles' relentless pride. And for what? Erik didn't even know. He wouldn’t return until tomorrow morning, when he’d install the remaining components for Cerebro. And then…

“It’s all falling into place, Charles,” Erik said. “By tomorrow, the machine will be finished. You know what happens then.”

“Yes, it’s painfully obvious.”

Erik gripped down on the cuffs. “Apparently not, my friend. Not when you continue to refuse us such a simple request.”

On those words, the knot in Erik's stomach tightened. It was pointless—so utterly pointless. All of it.

"You’re a stupid man,” Erik hissed. “This will happen with or without your consent. Whatever pride you're attempting to hold onto, it's damning you. For the love of God, simply let it go."

"Don't," Charles snapped back. "Don't you dare blame me."

"You’re doing this to yourself. The sooner you understand that, the sooner I can take you—”

"I said don't!" On Charles’ face, his eyes were as sharp as spears, his jaw clenched tight enough to break teeth. Any grogginess from the drugs seemed to have vanished like a speck of dust in the wind.

Seeing that face, Erik paused.

"Don't you dare turn this on me,” Charles snarled. “Don't you dare act as if I'm to blame!" He pointed a finger at Erik. "All of this—from the moment you took me from my home to where we are now—has been your doing. To the endless hours in this God-forsaken place, to your brotherhood, to _those!_ " He jabbed his finger towards the handcuffs. "All of it has been nothing more than examples of your unyielding selfishness and pathetic justifications for such!"

"Charles—"

"No! I don't want another excuse. I'm sick to death of them!" Rage flared red on his face. “You believe I don't know what’s to come? I know damn well, Erik. I’ve had nothing but time to think about it!” 

Then, Charles gasped; the fury across his features shaded into a deep, agonizing dread. He gripped his fingers to his armrests as if all the emotions in him were too much to bear. Witnessing that, the anger inside Erik cooled; he placed his hands on Charles' wrists.

"None of that matters," Erik explained, trying to keep his voice even. "Do you understand? However this happened, it doesn't change what's occurring now."

"You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you?" Charles came back. "That none of it matters. How we came to be here—none of it matters!" He thrashed his arms. 

"Charles, stop!" Erik held tight to the other man. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"Look at me!" he screamed. " _Look at me, Erik!_ "

As the full impact of Charles’ words struck him, all the air escaped Erik’s lungs. In his wheelchair, Charles stopped lashing out. His eyes were fixed on Erik; the anger in both could have boiled the ocean surrounding them. But it wasn't just anger. The other man's lips began trembling. Tears welled up in his eyes.

Reluctantly, Erik lowered his gaze to Charles’ legs. They laid lifelessly in the wheelchair, the limbs much thinner than they should have been. On the footplates, Charles' feet rested crookedly—unnaturally. As dead as the rest. 

Erik swallowed hard, the gravity of it all crashing into him.

"Do you have any idea what you've taken from me?" Charles asked. "And for what, Erik? Why? Tell me…please. Because, from here, all the excuses come to the same conclusion. That I'm forever trapped in this wheelchair because of your endless need for revenge!"

Erik closed his eyes. "That's not what happened. It was an accident—"

"It was no accident! What you did—what you were attempting to do—was no accident! You were trying to murder thousands of men!"

"What was I supposed to do, Charles?" Erik opened his eyes again. "They tried to kill us. Or have you forgotten that detail so easily?"

Erik steeled himself, ready for another comeback from the other man. But only silence answered him, and as Erik focused on his friend, the frustration inside him crumbled.

From Charles’ eyes, a set of tears fell. The fury had fled away. "And you saved us, didn't you?" he whispered. "Do you believe I've forgotten that? I know that, Erik. If you weren't there, we'd all be dead. I know that." 

Charles allowed his words to linger. He had meant them. There was no denying what would have happened if Erik hadn’t been on the beach that day, and Charles wasn’t one to omit such things. But the gratitude didn’t last. As if on its own, the kindness on Charles’ expression hardened to stone. 

"But then, you had to turn the missiles around,” Charles continued. “You couldn't help yourself, could you? It wasn't enough that you stopped them—that you proved to everyone we couldn't be killed so easily. You had to make certain the humans paid for their act of betrayal. And now…now I'm _here!_ " He slapped his armrests. "I don't need your prison, Erik—I'm forever sitting in mine!"

Charles hesitated again, clearly waiting for a response. When Erik didn't offer one, Charles' lips curved into an unpleasant grin. “Oh, that’s right. When someone has wronged you, they deserve your vengeance, yes? But when _you’re_ the culprit, you have every justification in the world, don't you?" His grin dropped. "Let me ask you this—every single person you’ve hurt or slaughtered, they deserved your wrath, didn’t they? Then, tell me, Erik…what have I ever done to you to deserve _this?_ ” Charles glanced down at himself. 

Standing inches from the other man, Erik didn't even open his mouth. He kept his eyes to Charles as the other man glared at him, the rage in his friend's eyes making him almost unrecognizable.

But then, Charles’ expression caved. The anger collapsed like it couldn't support itself, and in its place, a wave of pain cloaked his features. Another set of tears streamed down. He shut his eyes. Lifting his right hand, he cupped it over his mouth like he just drank poison and was suddenly feeling the effects. 

Erik remained trapped in place, all the words Charles had spoken eating away at his insides. He had known them all, but to hear his friend say them…it was a revelation Erik knew he never wanted to confront.

Then, Charles dropped his hand. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes glazed over like he was too tired to focus them. "Everyone believes not walking—that's the worst of it. That it's all of it. But it's not. It's just one thing of a thousand others." Charles set his hands on his lap, the fingers digging into his thighs. "I simply want to feel _something_. To know my body is still there. That it’s still mine. But it's not…it's not anymore." 

Charles lifted his head. His face, so filled with emotion seconds before, was blank. "It's funny," he mumbled. "All those things you never consider…like sweating. I can't sweat below my injury. Can you imagine that?"

Swallowing hard, Erik replied, "No."

"And children," Charles continued like he was talking outside of himself. "I never gave it much thought, truth be told. It's not that I didn't want children; I like children. I simply thought I had all the time in the world to…decide.”

He grew silent, then, staring up at nothing, eyes unfocused and without a speck of fight remaining. And Erik suddenly realized that blank, emotionless expression was far worse than any anger that had plagued his friend’s features just a moment before.

"May I ask you something?" Charles finally muttered through the quiet. "If you can't bear children—if you can't even...make love to a woman anymore—are you still considered a man?” He released a weary laugh. “Or is the definition truly that forgiving?" 

As swiftly as it emerged, the laughter faded. Then, another pair of tears slid down Charles’ face. He breathed as if the air was venom to his lungs; the noise was soft but somehow still managed to engulf the room. 

After a minute, the sobs quieted. Charles wiped at his eyes, the redness across his face calming. Then, he grabbed the rims of his wheelchair and rolled away. He wheeled past the kitchen, towards the bathroom. The door opened and then closed, and there was silence.

Timidly, Erik walked towards the dining room table. He sat. Resting his hands on its surface, he replayed what just happened in his mind. Across his body, his skin felt like ice. A cold sweat drenched his face. 

Several minutes passed, and then, the bathroom door opened. Charles rolled into the living area again. His hair had been brushed back; his face had been cleaned. He made his way to his bed and then threw a glance at Erik.

"I’m tired. So if you wouldn’t mind…” He motioned a hand to the cuffs.

Heaving himself off the dining room chair, Erik lolled back with the handcuffs as the other man settled a hand on the bed and started to raise his body from his wheelchair—

"Stop," Erik whispered.

Charles turned to him, curiosity cast on his expression. 

"I want to tell you something," Erik said. "And I need you to listen carefully."

Slowly, Charles sank back into his chair.

Standing tall before the other man, Erik set his jaw. "I'm a killer, Charles. A weapon. It's what I was designed to be and that is the way things are. Nothing will change that.

“And you knew this,” Erik went on. “From the moment we met, you knew what I was. I made no secret of it; I made no delusions on the matter. You are the one who so desperately wanted to see more."

A hint of pain wrinkled Charles' face. It was obvious he wanted to challenge Erik’s declaration, but either couldn’t find the will or the way to do so.

Erik continued, "In the end, however, I will do what is in my nature. I don't regret sending those missiles back to their ships. Those men were pieces of a machine designed to kill us, whether or not you wish to see it."

"Erik—"

Erik raised a hand. "I've killed men for far less offenses, Charles. And each one deserved their fate. I have hurt men—I have killed men—without hesitation, without remorse, and most certainly, without regret." 

Then, the hardness on Erik’s face broke down. He knelt beside his friend and placed a hand on top of his left armrest. Charles gazed onwards like he wasn't certain what he was seeing.

"I am sorry, Charles,” Erik declared. “I truly am. Believe me when I say that I never meant for this to happen. I never intended to harm you. But with all the power I possess, there is nothing I can do to change it." Leaning forward, Erik placed both his hands on Charles' shoulders. "I have wronged you, my friend. And for that, you deserve your vengeance. You deserve your vengeance against me."

Charles tensed in his chair. His breathing was heavy, his face flushing again. After a moment, he whispered, "Do you think I wish to harm you, Erik?"

"No," Erik replied. "That's what makes this that much worse."

Charles’ lips parted; he inhaled as if ready to respond, but the words seemed lodged in his throat. Finally, the pain across his face gave way. In its place was a look of helplessness as if suddenly realizing where they were, what had happened and what was to come—and knowing he could neither change nor prevent any of it. He closed his mouth.

Standing up, Erik tucked his hands under Charles’ armpits. As the other man set his right hand on the bed again, Erik helped him transfer to the mattress. There, Charles sat on the bed’s edge, his legs dangling off the side. The handcuffs in his grasp, Erik crouched down, securing one cuff to the bed frame—latching the other around Charles’ left wrist.

“I—I can’t help you,” Charles whispered as the cuff met his skin.

Erik peered up; Charles’ eyes were already there. 

“I can’t,” Charles continued. “I _can’t_ , Erik.”

The hopelessness on Charles’ face darkened into a mix of terror and awareness like an addict suddenly realizing he couldn’t give up his drugs. As Erik saw that expression haunting his friend’s features, a dark revelation grabbed him. 

He’d been wrong. 

He’d been wrong the entire time—from the moment he’d brought Charles to the base, to that instant—he had never understood what was really happening. It wasn’t Charles’ pride that prevented him from helping Erik and his cause. It wasn’t that Charles wouldn’t help him—he _couldn’t_. He couldn’t live with himself knowing that he’d willingly created a mutant army capable of setting off a war. 

He’d rather be tortured. He’d rather be dead.

On that thought, a surge of anguish encompassed Erik's body. With a gasp, he lifted his hands and rested them on Charles’ arms. Charles didn’t react. 

“I know you can’t," Erik finally said. "I know, my friend. But it’s too late now. The others know what you can do, and I…” Erik sucked in a breath. “There is no other option left.”

Erik raised his head. He looked his friend in the eye. “Tomorrow, I will force you to use that machine. I’ll use any means necessary, and I’ll bring you to that point—where you can’t take it anymore. It will simply be too much to bear. And you’ll concede.”

Charles didn’t even blink.

With that, Erik squeezed Charles' arms tighter, holding to him as if the other man would fall into an abyss otherwise.

“Then, I’m going to take you home,” Erik whispered. “Back to your own life. And you’ll be able to live with yourself, my friend, knowing you did everything in your power to prevent this. That you tried everything you could to stop it. You simply couldn’t.”

Charles sat motionless; Erik could hardly hear him breathing. But then, Charles’ hands lifted. He grabbed Erik's arms, holding just as tight. 

No more tears surfaced. No more words were spoken. Erik stared at his friend—his brother—knowing that the next day, it would all be over. It would be done. And then, he could take Charles home…or whatever was still left of him by the time Erik was finished.

**End of Chapter**


	26. Chapter 26

It was late afternoon and the sun was setting. Moira stood on the opposite side of the cash register inside the docking manager’s bait shop—the same spot her feet had been planted for the last five hours. Her legs were cramping and she really needed to pee. In front of her, the docking manger, Bernie, shuffled through his paperwork.

He’d already called every marina in Long Beach. He’d checked with managers he knew in Santa Barbara, Ventura and other places that had told Moira to get lost when she visited them. Across the small countertop between the register and fish bait, paperwork was piled up, spread out and toppled over.

Moira had saved some pages from spilling into the worm barrel a few times already.

“Okay,” Bernie spoke as his teeth dug into his cigar, “the _Tyrant_ hasn’t been up the California coast since mid-March. _Bobby’s Girl_ is still out to sea since it docked here two weeks ago and the _Ike_ hasn’t been to Long Beach for over a month.”

“But the _Tyrant_ and _Ike_ are older yachts,” Moira said. “They’ve been coming here for years now, right?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Bernie chewed on his cigar.

“And you’re pretty sure the _Bobby’s Girl_ had a family on it? With kids?”

“Yeah, that’s what I remember. One of the boys flicked me off—spoiled little brat.”

With a smile to Bernie, Moira pulled the top piece of paper from the stack in front of her. It was Bernie's notes; of the twenty yachts he’d suspected might match Moira’s description, all but the ones he’d just mentioned had been scratched out.

“I’m sorry, darling,” the man said. “All the other yacht owners come here on a regular basis. I know them. They’re mostly families with little ones, so unless your ex is someone else’s hubby—”

“No,” Moira whispered. “No, it’s not like that.”

Bernie tapped his fingers on the countertop. A look of uncertainty clouded his features.

As Moira studied the list of scratched off names, something caught her.

“Bernie,” she lifted the paper, “what’s this mean?”

She pointed to a yacht. The man examined the name and then laughed. “Oh, that’s nothing. It’s—it’s just me being stupid.”

“You put an ‘X’ beside this one.” 

“Yeah.”

“The…” Moira squinted, trying to read Bernie's handwriting.

“The _Cassandra_.” Bernie waved a dismissive hand. “It’s just dumb, you see. The yacht’s been docking somewhere on Long Beach for weeks now—has to. It’s just that…” He broke off.

Moira raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

Bernie sighed. “Well, I haven’t seen it for over a month. Not even once. And I’m here all day, everyday, but…” He shrugged. “I’ve seen the passengers plenty.”

A sinking feeling grabbed hold of Moira. “But not the ship?”

“Nope. So, like I said, they must be docking somewhere else and then coming over here. I don’t know why, but they ain’t using my marina, that’s for sure.”

“Bernie,” Moira leaned over the counter, “when was the last time you saw the _Cassandra’s_ owners?”

The man snorted. He pointed out to the parking lot beside the docks. “Hell, darling—they keep a car right over there. I just saw some of them earlier today, zooming out of here like the dock was on fire.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Almost nightfall and still nothing. Hank, Sean and Alex had spent most of their time sweating inside their Chrysler Imperial in the lot beside Castlebrook, peering out from the windows with a couple pairs of binoculars stuck to their faces. The warehouse workers didn’t notice them, still too far away and too busy with their own tasks to care.

After a couple hours or so, however, the California sun started baking the three men like potatoes in a fire pit; they had to get out. Sitting between other cars in the lot, all of them continued their surveillance.

The longer they waited, the more Hank realized his sweat wasn’t just from the heat. Anxiety gnawed his insides, knowing full well what would happen if and when Erik arrived. Would the others be with him? Even if they weren’t, Erik was a formable opponent all on his own. He’d proven that during the incident at Cuba, and at the mansion just a couple weeks before.

With the exception of Alex’s chest plate, Hank had replaced all the metal across everyone’s uniforms with non-magnetic white gold. For what _that_ was worth.

As the sun was in the process of setting—the warehouse almost ready to close—there came a smack to Hank’s side. Sitting behind a ruby Pontiac Bonneville in the parking lot, Hank threw a glare to his right where Alex was lying on his belly, binoculars in hand.

“Look sharp, beast-man,” the other man said as he peered out from under the Bonneville. “I think we got something here.”

Stretching out on the ground, Hank adjusted his glasses and then lifted his set of binoculars towards Castlebrook’s main entrance. Near the front of the lot and just a little ways from Castlebrook, a white Continental was parking. The engine shut down, and then two figures emerged.

Hank released a snarl. With his left hand, he reached over to Sean on his other side and shook him until the other man’s eyes popped open.

“What?” Sean said with sleep still slurring his words. “Quit shaking me, man.”

“Get ready,” Hank said and nodded towards the warehouse.

The other man glanced towards Castlebrook. Obviously noticing what Hank and Alex were seeing, all the grogginess on Sean’s features cleared away like someone had splashed him with ice water.

To any workers who might spot them, the two women getting out of their Continental were a sight. Angel still kept her ebony hair long, her skirt short and boots up past her knees. Raven had reverted to her “human” self at that moment, her long blonde hair and black short-sleeved dress enough to make any man salivate.

Just a few months ago, Hank knew he would have. Those days were over.

“Is that all of them?” Sean asked.

Hank considered and then replied, “They’re just picking up supplies. It’s not like you need an army for that endeavor.”

“So, what’s the plan here?” Alex asked.

With that, Hank swallowed hard. He knew there was only one thing they could do, and as Hank turned to Alex and Sean, both men seemed to understand as well.

They stood.

Raven and Angel were chatting with one another as they walked towards the warehouse’s entrance; the workers were scarce, most of them gone for the night. Hank, Sean and Alex were roughly ninety feet from the girls, and even with Hank’s obvious blue features, the dimming sunlight made him and the other two men about as noticeable as shadows across the pavement.

Eighty feet.

The three men quickened their pace. Raven and Angel were still a little ways from the warehouse, but the remaining workers would spot them soon enough. Hank and the others had to hustle.

Sixty feet.

“They’re going to make it up there before we ever reach them, Hank,” Alex said.

Fifty feet.

With a roll of his eyes, Hank sprang into action. His long feet propelled him forward, flashing past the other men as they also jumped into a run. Hank was faster. 

In front of him, the two women paused as if controlled by one mind. Raven threw a glance over her shoulder—

She had enough time to gasp before Hank snaked an arm around her waist. Heaving her off the ground, he spun her around and reached out his other arm to snag Angel.

His fingertips grazed her shoulder, but she was too quick. Her wings spread from her body like a giant opening its arms. Her face contorted; she inhaled deeply.

A red beam lit up the evening like a headlight in a cave. The fireball from Angel’s mouth flew by Hank’s head the same instant the girl was flung back. Her head hit pavement and she was out the game.

“Let go of me, Hank!” Raven screamed.

Her soft peach skin vanished. In its place was the textured blue that almost matched the color of Hank’s fur. 

“What’s going on out here?” a man shouted from the warehouse’s entrance.

A flashlight flickered around the parking lot; it found Hank’s face. Eyes zeroing in on the worker, Hank growled. Dropping his flashlight, the man darted back inside the warehouse. The large door to Castlebrook closed.

A sharp pain wracked Hank’s foot. Removing her heel from his toes, Raven whipped back. Her elbow caught Hank in the nose; his arms loosened. Raven slipped from his hold.

The girl wasn’t finished, however. Reeling around, her blue leg kicked sideways, and collided into his throat like she’d performed that move a thousand times over. With a gasp, Hank bit his lip before collapsing to the parking lot.

“I didn’t want to do that!” Raven screamed.

Another blast of red—closer this time. As Hank lay motionless, he watched as Raven dived to the ground; the blast shot over her. She glanced at Hank…and suddenly jumped on top of him. Grabbing his arms, she shoved both of them away, rolling across the pavement together.

As they rolled, Hank felt the shift. Raven’s slender figure bulked up. Her skin grew fur. When they stopped, Hank stared up at the girl. But it wasn’t her anymore.

It was him.

His beasty face. Yellow eyes. Dog-like teeth.

He felt sick.

A few feet away, Alex and Sean slowed their pace. Both men gaped onwards, clearly uncertain what they were staring at.

“Help me with her!” Raven suddenly screamed with Hank’s deep, animal voice. The morphed girl wrapped her furry arms around Hank’s chest, gripping her tight.

All the wind burst up from his lungs. God, she was stronger than he’d imagine.

“Hank?” Sean called.

“Get her before it’s too late!” Raven shouted again.

Underneath her, Hank struggled to free himself. He’d never hit a woman before—never thought he’d need to. But Raven was about ready to crack his ribs.

“Stop!” the real Hank finally gargled up.

His left hand managed to slip away. With it, he slapped the side of Raven’s head, open-palmed. She shouted in his beasty voice and toppled off him.

“Shoot her!” Raven shouted as she crashed into the pavement.

“ _Shoot us both!_ ” Hank screamed, looking at Sean.

The other man got the hint. With a great inhale, a sonic scream erupted from his mouth. He tried to focus it directly at Raven, but Hank was in the way. The sound was high-pitched, fast and with such force, Hank barely managed to get his hands to his ears.

Raven didn’t fare any better. Beside him, the girl couldn’t maintain her beastly form. The fur flattened back to her skin. Her hair brightened to red. Her womanly curves returned.

Sean stopped squawking.

Racing to Raven, Alex and he snatched her up by her arms and lugged her off the ground before she had a chance to recover.

“You all right, big guy?” Sean asked Hank.

Rolling to his knees, Hank closed his eyes, sucking in a few good breaths. He hadn’t eaten anything since that morning, and still his stomach felt like it had a ten pound turkey lodged in it. He swallowed hard, trying not to puke.

“Sorry, buddy,” Sean said. “That’s a nasty side effect.”

“Uh-huh,” Hank said with one last gasp.

Feeling as his insides decided to stay _inside_ , Hank raised his head. He turned to Angel. The girl was groaning something awful and was definitely out of commission. Beside him, Alex and Sean held tight to Raven. Back to her blue, naked form, she was trapped within their care.

Hank got his feet under him. Towering over Raven, he stared sharply at her.

The girl’s expression was a mix of anger and guilt. She knew why they were there, all right. 

“I have one question for you, Raven, and I want a straight answer,” Hank said. “Where’s Charles?”

**End of Chapter**


	27. Chapter 27

On the _Cassandra_ , the lights were turned off except a small patio lamp dangling from the foredeck like the last remnants of a party. On a lounge chair, Magneto sat. He had replaced his red, violet and black suit with a simple pair of black slacks and turtle neck. As usual, his helmet rested in his quarters—an unneeded accessory. Until the following morning, of course. 

Throughout the yacht, subtle noises seeped through the walls as the other mutants got ready for bed. Riptide was finishing up the last bit of circuit boards, only awaiting a few more components Mystique and Angel were picking up. They were running late. Azazel had already teleported away to check on them.

In his left hand, Magneto studied a piece of paper. It was the short list of coordinates from Emma's time on Cerebro. In Erik's right, a small piece of metal floated between his fingers—one the buttons from Riptide's suit. Magneto's fingers danced with it, the shiny disk flipping as it passed by each digit. 

It was a peaceful night out in the ocean.

Nonetheless, all Magneto could feel was dread. Dread of things to come, things he could no longer prevent. He'd considered how he'd handle it all. Cerebro had to be respected—handled with care. So did Charles. Magneto would hook the other man to the machine, starting slow, and see where things ended. 

The truth was, his friend was already to the point of cracking. Magneto simply needed to add that extra stone to his chest. Then, he could take Charles home, and forget he'd ever agreed to Riptide's asinine plan in the first place.

"Staying up late?" Riptide's voice cut through the peace on the foredeck.

Magneto clenched his fist around the floating button. "What do you want?" he asked.

Strolling to Magneto in his shimmering gray suit, Riptide plopped down on the chair beside his. In his grasp was one of the green circuit boards from Cerebro. 

"So," Riptide started with an amused look on his features, "we're almost ready, aren't we?"

"No. I'm almost ready. You're almost done." Magneto nodded at the piece of Cerebro.

Riptide snorted. "You're really going to do it? Finally force that telepath onto Cerebro?"

Magneto unclenched his hand. With his finger, he flicked the silver button, and it bounced off Riptide’s chest.

Riptide picked up the piece of metal. "Cute, Erik. I must admit, your exploding suit trick the other night was a real treat."

"I'm tired of listening to you, Riptide." 

"You still didn't answer my question. Are you really going to do this? For your fellow mutants?"

Magneto released a sigh. "I already told you I would handle it."

With that, the amusement on Riptide's face trailed away. He flung the button to the floor. "I don't believe you.” 

Before Magneto could reply, Riptide stood. Brushing his bangs away from his eyes, he was gone, back towards his quarters and out of sight.

Extending his hand, Magneto called the button to his fingers again. The metal disk floated up from the floor and as it found Magneto's palm, he closed his hand around it, holding it tight enough for the button to dig into his skin.

From the edge of the foredeck, there came a burst of red. Lowering his hand, Magneto glanced to his right, expecting to see Azazel with Angel and Mystique by his sides. Only the teleporter stood there, however, and upon registering that image, a dark premonition crossed Magneto's mind.

Azazel didn't hesitate. "I couldn't find them," he explained.

Magneto dropped the button from his hands; it _clattered_ to the wooden planks below him. He stood and approached the other man.

"I waited by the docks," Azazel said. "They never returned."

"Do you know where they were planning to go today?"

"I checked them all. Fortuna's—Castlebrook. They never picked up the order there."

Azazel pulled something from one of his pockets. It was the final metal resisters for Cerebro, the ones Angel and Mystique were supposed to retrieve that night.

Heart pounding, Magneto considered all the possibilities. It could have been the CIA; after all, the humans knew they existed and were most likely on the hunt. But with Angel's fireballs and Mystique's growing combat skills, a couple agents were no match.

That only left one other option.

"They're here," Magneto whispered.

Hank, Sean and Alex—they'd come for Charles. 

Azazel arched his eyebrows. Behind him, his tail swayed back and forth.

Magneto brought his gaze back to Azazel. “Gather everyone—we need to search the mainland, and hunt them down."

The other man rested a hand on Magneto's shoulder. "I'll wake the others. We will split up and find them."

Before Magneto could protest, Azazel and he turned into a patch of red fog, disappearing off the yacht…

—Azazel returned seconds later after taking Magneto to the mainland. He didn't bother teleporting to the foredeck; he knew where he needed to be. As the red fog faded, he stood in Riptide's quarters, the other man standing beside his closet, putting up his gray jacket for the night. Riptide didn't even flinch as Azazel materialized from nothing.

"Here," Azazel said and tossed the bag of resisters to his friend. "An opportunity has finally presented itself. Do what is needed, comrade."

Catching them, Riptide peered down and smiled.

**End of Chapter**


	28. Chapter 28

The world was numb. Charles lay in bed, his body twisted away from the room. His cuffed left arm was curled behind his back, his hand tingling from the lack of blood flow.

He didn't adjust it. His eyes remained open. Above him, tiny noises drifted through the base—the piping rattled. The lights hummed. Beyond that, however, the _rapping_ had returned. Louder now, little footfalls bustled along like children were playing above him. 

“ _…Charles?..._ ”

Moira again. A week ago, Charles would have fought her voice, reminding himself it wasn't real. He had to ward her off; he had to maintain his senses. As her voice breezed through his ears again, however, a vestige of warmth soothed him. He no longer wished her to leave. He never wished her to leave.

“ _…It'll be over soon, Charles…_ ”

She was right. No matter what, Charles knew that statement was true.

There came a tiny _clank_ , and as it rang in Charles' ears, all the other noises across the base faded. Charles squinted his eyes shut; the warmth inside him cooled. The doorknob behind Cerebro was twisting. 

It wasn't even morning yet—then again, there was no point to delay this. The sooner Erik did what he felt was necessary, the sooner it would be done with.

Still, as Charles heard footsteps echo off of Cerebro's flooring, his heart raced.

He gripped his bed sheets.

From the other side of the room, Charles listened as Erik tinkered with Cerebro. He heard as his friend plugged in new pieces of the machine, the plastic and metal _clapping_ together. Then, from the entire room, there came a rumble. The wall panels hummed.

Cerebro was activated.

Charles released his bedding. He breathed slowly, trying to get his body to calm. Panicking wouldn't help him. He had to face this—accept it. Push through it. Inside his chest, however, his heart still hammered hard enough to make his head ache.

More footfalls, this time approaching the steps. They were lighter than Charles recalled. Erik wore boots—heavy, stomping things. These were softer, like those from dress shoes. 

With that realization, Charles' eyes snapped open.

From the metal fencing, a burst of energy exploded. The wind was strong enough to shove Charles across his bed and into the wall beside it. He jerked his free hand to the wall, trying to keep his face from slamming into the marble. The wind swirled around the room like a tornado. The lights on the ceiling clattered together, some breaking off.

Then, the whirlwind subsided. The room became suddenly quiet except for one noise, and it took Charles a second to realize it was coming from him. He was gasping.

Before he had a chance to roll over, Riptide was already there. Snagging Charles by his collar, the other man spun him around. On his head was Erik's helmet, the red looking almost too vibrant for the man's gray attire. He grinned at Charles the same way a wolf showed its teeth before biting down. 

"My turn now," was all Riptide said before Charles felt himself being ripped away from the bed.

Clumsily gripping the other man's wrists, Charles released a single shout before his body smacked into the floor. His left wrist still cuffed to the bed, the limb twisted behind his back as he dropped. A shot of pain jostled up his arm.

He felt it, but barely possessed the senses to understand it. The world had become a daze, incoherent moments mashed together, and he didn't have time to process anything.

From Riptide, another whirlwind erupted. This one was small, just enough to pry apart the mattress frame. The metal bent and then the screws gave way. The cuff latched to the metal slid off, freeing Charles' restrained arm from the bed. 

Immediately, Riptide clasped his hands underneath Charles' armpits. At that, Charles wrenched his arms upwards. He clawed at Riptide's sleeves as the other man dragged him across the room towards Cerebro. Charles' fingers dug in. He ripped the other man's suit like it was made from tissue paper.

Riptide stopped. His hands jerked away, dropping Charles to the floor. With a groan, Charles fell to his back, his vision blurred from the lights above—his mind reeling in every direction but center. 

_Focus_ , he thought to himself. _You need to focus._

Erik wouldn’t have sent Riptide; whatever his old friend intended to do, he intended to do himself. Charles stretched his telepathy outwards. Past Riptide—past the base—and into the depths of the Pacific. 

_Erik?_ he called.

Nothing. Even without his helmet, Erik was lost to Charles' mind.

_Erik!_

The lights were suddenly blocked, a figure in their path. Charles could barely make out Riptide's face, but what he could see was enough.

Fury. Pure, unrestrained fury through the darkness.

Bending down, Riptide grabbed at Charles' arms—his neck—anything that would hold Charles still. With another shout, Charles thrashed his arms at the other man, trying to grasp at the helmet on his head.

If he could yank it off, all of this would be over. 

But as one of Riptide's hands clamped down on Charles' throat, the air stopped coming. Frantically, Charles grappled for anything he could get a hold of. His fingers caught a patch of the other man's long hair protruding from the bottom of the helmet; Riptide finally cried out. As the other man's head tilted forward, his hands loosened around Charles’ neck. Riptide gasped as he was yanked down. Charles lifted his other hand towards the helmet—

There was another eruption. Except, this time, it wasn't a whirlwind. It was from Riptide's own body—spinning. Twisting. Charles felt his body heave off the floor.

All the air escaped him.

The lights inside the base stretched into streams of glowing lines.

Then, Charles collapsed back to the carpet. On his stomach, he released a groan like someone had just kicked him in the gut. The putrid taste of vomit traced the back of his throat.

Riptide already had him by his right arm. Face to the floor, Charles couldn't see it. But he felt it. Just above Erik's gold watch, a clammy hand clutched to his wrist. Below it, a cold, sharp object touched his skin. It started to press down; a stinging pain burned Charles' arm.

"Stop!" Charles suddenly heard himself screaming.

The knife hesitated. 

"What?" Riptide asked.

Shutting his eyes, Charles spoke again, "Please…stop."

The knife was pulled away. Grabbing Charles' arm with both hands, Riptide flipped him to his back. In his right hand, the dagger shimmered with a streak of crimson; on Charles' arm, there was a two-inch gash still oozing red.

Riptide pushed the blade to Charles' throat.

"I like that," the other man said. "The begging—that's good."

Then, the amusement across Riptide's face darkened. He bent forward so far, Charles could feel the other man's breaths hit his face. "That's what you should have been doing since you were first brought here!" Riptide screamed, his voice causing Charles' ears to ring.

With a shake of his head, the other man continued, "I bet this has been so funny to you. Seeing us flailing around here for the last two weeks. Well, guess what, telepath? The games are over."

A shiver ran up Charles' back, cold enough to make his body shake. 

_Erik?_ he called again. _Please, for God's sake—please hear me…_

"Now," Riptide went on, "you're going to do what I say. You're not going to struggle—you're not going to talk your way out of this like you've been doing with Erik. And if you try any of those things…" he pressed the blade deeper into Charles' skin, "I'm going to start cutting pieces off. And not the dead ones, my friend."

Charles' tongue rolled up to the top of his mouth, begging for something miraculous to occur to him. There was nothing.

Riptide smiled like an idea had lit up in his mind. He lifted the dagger, and, rotating it sideways, tapped the blade to Charles' lips. "Actually, let's just take care of this little problem right now." His smile fell. "Don't move."

Riptide released him. Standing up, the other man walked towards the kitchen. On the floor, Charles buried his face in his hands. His upper body trembled like electricity was searing through his veins. Across his right arm, the bleeding slowed—streaks of crimson had webbed across his skin, drying. 

In the kitchen, Riptide rummaged through the cabinets, and as Charles listened, the reality of the situation crashed into him. With all his power, Charles could do nothing to stop this. Erik wasn't there to help him; he couldn't help himself. He was completely helpless—completely hopeless.

“ _…Charles?..._ ” 

"Moira," he whispered, begging to hear more.

“ _…It'll be over soon, Charles…_ ” 

"You know what's really sad," Riptide said as he continued his search. "You don't seem to get any of this. You think that because you're a fellow mutant, we should be merciful. But you're worse than the humans. You're one of us and you chose them. You put them above us. That makes you the worst kind of enemy—a traitor. And I don't offer mercy to traitors, Charles."

He continued sifting. After a minute, a small laugh escaped Riptide's lips. Charles listened as the other man's footfalls hit the carpet, approaching. Moira's voice disappeared back into the walls.

"Here we go," Riptide said as he dropped to his knees beside Charles. 

There was the sound of duct tape being ripped from its roll. As Riptide yanked Charles' arms away, Charles focused on the man's hands. It wasn't just tape. In his grasp was the cloth tissue from Riptide's suit.

Before Charles realized what was happening, the cloth was shoved into his mouth. He tried to jerk his head away, but as Riptide fastened his fingers to his jaw, the other man forced him back. The tissue flattened Charles' tongue against the bottom of his mouth; a taste of starch engulfed his senses. His teeth clenched together, trying to prevent the fabric from sliding down his throat.

Then, the duct tape was slapped to his face. Squinting his eyelids shut, Charles rolled to his side, a set of tears burning his eyes.

“ _…It'll be over soon…_ ”

"That should do it," Riptide said.

With a smack of his hands to his knees, the other man stood up again. He moved from Charles' side to the floor right above his head. He bent over—

Charles heard the rattling of the handcuff's chain just before his left wrist was wrenched over his head. With a muffled scream, he desperately groped for the chain as Riptide started to drag him towards Cerebro by the other end of the cuffs.

Then, the floor switched from carpet to hard stone. As Charles gripped the handcuff's chain with both hands, his body was hauled down the stairs. His vision hazy, he watched as his legs slipped off each step, _thumping_ into the next like someone pulling a corpse.

"I have a theory," Riptide said as he brought Charles to the platform. "You see, Charles, I've listened to Erik and Emma talk about this machine for weeks now. And one thing that always caught me was how there's never been a mention of the machine being too weak to work or too difficult to master—in fact, just the opposite. Emma says it's actually too powerful."

Snaking his hands under Charles' armpits, Riptide carted him up the platform's small incline, and then dumped him to its center. At the edge, Charles' legs laid off from the rise. As his head rested on the metal platform, Charles shifted his eyes towards Cerebro. The machine was lit up like Christmas décor, the buttons and levers blinking.

"Here's what I think," Riptide went on as he wrapped the handcuff's chain around one of the platform's railings and then secured the end of the cuff to Charles' right wrist. "I think that once you're strapped into this machine, you won't be able to help yourself. I think your telepathy will just take over. And you'll give us all the coordinates we need, whether you want to or not."

In his vision, the lights on Cerebro's console swelled, blinding Charles from viewing anything else. He felt Riptide slide something down over his head. Above him, wires spilled across Charles' arms. There was a tiny hint of white-blue glowing just above his eyes.

"Very nice," Riptide spoke as if offering a compliment. Then, the other man stepped away. His figure eclipsed the lights illuminating off Cerebro—a black stain against the bright colors.

Riptide played with the controls. His hands were dancing across the levers and knobs, pushing them to the maximum output. Then, with one more smile Charles' direction, the other man jerked the central power lever upwards.

The gray panels across the walls _boomed_. The blue light above Charles' head brightened. Squinting his eyes shut, Charles' upper body arched as his telepathy shot outwards.

“ _…It'll be over soon, Charles…_ ”

Then, the room vanished and the gray world consumed him.

**End of Chapter**


	29. Chapter 29

_I just realized I haven't posted any chapters on here for quite some time. Shame on me—I'll post chapter 29 and 30 today to make up for my procrastination._

**Chapter 29…**

The marina was closed. Bernie had given Moira the list of yachts he'd scratched out, wished her luck, and left for the evening. Above, the California moon was almost as bright as sunlight. Sitting on a bench beside the marina's parking lot, Moira waited.

If they followed the same pattern Bernie had noticed, Erik and his band of mutants would have to return to the marina eventually to park their car. They wouldn't expect someone there for them—Moira would be a surprise. Of course, she still had no idea how to make that an advantage. 

No headlights made their way to the marina. Just as Moira felt her eyelids drooping, she heard a pair of heavy footsteps stomping pavement. She snapped back to attention.

The man in front of her was dressed in casual attire—black slacks and turtleneck. But that didn't dampen the intensity of his eyes as he stared at Moira from the edge of the parking lot. His shoulders squared—his arms tensed at his sides.

"Shit," Moira was able to muster before she felt the bench underneath her give way.

With one swoop, her seat left her, her body flipping upwards. Below, the bench's metal legs contorted like a gymnast on a balance beam. She started to drop head-first towards the pavement, but an inch before impact, she slowed in mid-air. The metal beams had enveloped her, holding her still. Her hair flopped around her face.

"Where are they?" Erik asked as he approached her.

With a groan, Moira replied, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Like hell you don't."

Then, Moira felt herself floating away from the ground; her body rotated upright. Erik stood half a foot away, his face level with hers. His eyes practically glowed with rage. There was something else, however. Concern?

"I'll ask again," Erik said. "Where are they, Moira?"

Moira shook her head. Erik wasn't talking about Hank, Sean and Alex. He was talking about his band of mutants. 

"I'm alone, Erik," Moira said. "I've been waiting for one of you to show up—that's it." 

Despite his fury, the logic seemed to gradually seep into him. After all, it wasn't like Moira was capable of taking out one of his fellow mutants, and if she were with Hank, Sean and Alex, she certainly wouldn't be sitting at the marina, alone.

The rage on Erik's face faded to disinterest. Keeping Moira enfolded within the bench metal, he lowered her to the ground and then started to walk away.

"Where's Charles?" Moira called out.

His back to her, Erik halted. His shoulders slacked some; without looking, he replied, "He's not your concern, Moira. Go home."

"You're full of crap, you know that!" Moira shouted as she tried to free her arms. "Tell me where he is, Erik!"

The man angled his head to the sky as if listening to Moira was getting to be just too much. He could kill her with a little bit of mental focus. Instead, he began walking again, lowering his gaze and pretending like Moira wasn't sitting behind him on the pavement.

And there, she could do nothing. It didn't matter that she'd figured out where the mutants were; it wasn't like they had to hide. Not with their powers. She couldn't stop them—an army wouldn't stand much chance.

As Erik trekked further away, Moira shouted the only thing she could think of. "I'm at the Loma Vista Hotel! Just…please, bring Charles there! _Please_ , Erik!"

Erik didn't even slow his pace. After a minute, however, the metal around Moira loosened, and she was able to wiggle out from her restraints. By then, Erik was gone.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Hours had passed and there was still no sign of them. Magneto had searched the docks, the streets surrounding the docks, and even the bars on the streets surrounding the docks. Mystique and Angel had disappeared like they'd decided to dive into the depths of the ocean.

The other mutants handled searches of their own, splitting up to improve their chances. At least, that's what Magneto assumed. Since being teleported off the Cassandra, he hadn't seen Azazel, Emma or Riptide. He finally gave up and hot-wired a random car to get around the city. A deep, unsettling anxiety was rustling around in his gut, and he knew it had nothing to do with Angel and Mystique's disappearance.

Nonetheless, he continued searching. Angel especially enjoyed spending time on the mainland, and there were thousands of places she and Mystique could have ended up before Hank, Alex and Sean had spotted them. It was like trying to find a shard of glass in a bucket of ice.

Close to three in the morning, and Magneto had ventured away from Long Beach and into Los Angeles. Driving in his stolen vehicle, his anger deepened. Something was happening—his band of mutants were plotting.

Then, out of nowhere, Azazel teleported into the car.

Magneto didn't hesitate. "Where the hell have you been?" he asked.

"We've found them," Azazel said and then the red cloud engulfed them both. 

Emma was already there in the parking lot of the Castlebrook Warehouse, her hands on her hips like she'd been waiting for a year. As the cloud of red cleared, Magneto swiftly noticed that it wasn't just Angel and Mystique missing in action. He frowned. 

"Where's Riptide?" Magneto asked.

"I couldn't find him," Azazel said. "He must be searching further than I realized."

Magneto studied the man. "Is that so?"

"That is so, comrade."

It was subtle, but Magneto noticed it. The slightest bit of hesitation tinged Azazel's features. Magneto opened his mouth to question the other man when Emma reached out a hand. She gripped down on his sleeve.

"There." She nodded straight ahead.

From the side of Castlebrook, three figures stepped out of the shadows. Even in the dim emergency lights from the warehouse, the men's uniforms were bright enough to see the blue and yellow. In the center was Hank McCoy, his blue fur waving in the nighttime air.

Without another word, Magneto stepped forward. Emma and Azazel followed closely behind and within a few seconds, the two groups faced each other. Hank, Sean and Alex had their hands balled into fists. 

This was not going to be pleasant.

"Where's Mystique and Angel?" Magneto asked.

"Safe," Hank replied, trying to sound as menacing as he appeared.

Magneto glanced at Emma. The woman maintained her impassive features, but her eyes had focused. Deep in concentration, it was clear she was already trying to read the other mutants' minds. As she continued, however, her focus shifted to frustration and she turned to Magneto.

"They've taken them out of the city," she explained. "But I can't pinpoint where. There’s winding roads—a cabin. They—they took turns driving around until they found a place. I can't sort it out."

Magneto brought his attention back to the other men. "Clever."

"Thank you," Hank replied.

"So, now what?" Magneto asked. "Are they being held for ransom? Do you intend to torture them until we cave? A bit gruesome for you three."

"Just give us Charles," Hank said, "and we'll let Angel and Raven go."

"That's not an option." 

"Then, we have a problem," Hank came back. "We're not leaving without him."

"We'll return Charles once we're done."

"That's not good enough, Erik."

"I wasn't looking for your approval."

The other man growled. Across from each other, both groups of mutants had tensed. From Azazel's back, the red man withdrew a long scimitar sword. Emma circled the three men. Hank and the other two men eyed her, clearly waiting for an attack.

"I don't want any of this," Magneto told them.

Hank's yellow eyes glared at him. "Bring Charles here now."

"No."

With that single word, it began. From Alex, a flash of red surged from around his chest. Magneto had half a second to react; with his power, he ripped the hood off a nearby Pontiac and hurled it between himself and the other man. The blast was still too strong. Suddenly, the car's hood was shoved just inches from Magneto's face—he dropped back, flinging the burnt metal away.

Through the rest of the lot, things had already gotten out of hand. With his claws extended, Hank slashed at Azazel the same instant the other man brought up his sword. Sean was half-kneeling on the ground. He clutched his head like his skull was about to explode. In front of him, Emma had a hand extended, a confident glint in her intense blue eyes.

Another red blast erupted. Emma didn't have time to react like Magneto, and immediately found herself shoved backwards by several feet. She toppled; a groan escaped her lips.

Sean got up—tossed a gaze to Magneto. He inhaled.

Magneto jerked his hands. Around him, bits of debris—from metal coins on the ground to the side panels of Castlebrook's warehouse—went soaring. From Sean, a sonic boom rolled from his lips.

Within the banshee scream, the metal bits flying towards him dropped to the ground like insects hit with poison. The large metal panels came soaring; Sean reeled around. He opened his mouth.

Magneto took the advantage. With another swipe of his hand, a chunk of scrap metal from a nearby dumpster sprang into the air. It soared towards its target; it clipped Sean in the shoulder. With a shout, Sean spun around before slamming to the ground.

Another glowing red beam flared towards Magneto. Gasping, he dived to his stomach as the streak of light roared past him. He extended a hand; he felt the metal on Alex's chest plate heated with energy. He shoved the other man hard to the ground. 

With that, Magneto spun his gaze to Azazel. "Get Riptide!" he shouted.

As Hank knocked the sword from the red man's hands, Azazel teleported. He reappeared a heartbeat later behind Hank, but the beast-man wouldn't have it. Gripping his hands to Azazel's arms, he flung the other man forward.

And it continued.

"Azazel!" Magneto shouted. "Get Riptide. Now!"

The other man shot a glare to Magneto the same instant his tail twisted around Hank's left wrist. Shooting Hank into the air, the teleporter suddenly disappeared and didn't materialize again. Hank twisted around, and dropped to the pavement on his hands and enlarged feet. Eyes trained on Erik, a snarl escaped his lips.

Sucking in a breath, Magneto heaved himself off the ground and then summoned another batch of metal to his command.

End of Chapter


	30. Chapter 30

_I've posted both chapter 29 and 30 today, so make sure you're not starting on the wrong chapter! ___

 _ _ **Chapter 30…**__

 _ _By the docks, Moira sat on the busted marina bench. A beer was clamped around her fingers. The drink tasted bitter and that's how she wanted it. Nonetheless, the alcohol could do little to relieve the sense of helplessness chewing at her insides.__

__She had been a fool. What did she expect when she set off on this little adventure? She couldn't stay in contact with Hank; getting a hold of her CIA contacts from California was nearly impossible. Perhaps she wanted to play hero. Perhaps she wanted to be the one to find Charles, to prove that humans could still do something productive inside the mutant world._ _

__As her butt remained pasted to the crooked bench, however, Moira instantly knew that excuse was baloney. It wasn't about proving anything. She just wanted to save Charles. After all that had happened…to make sure he was okay. To see him again._ _

__The truth was, even before Hank called her, she'd been searching. That was why she had stolen all the CIA files. That was why she had risked her job—her life. The telepath really had gotten inside her head._ _

__Shutting her eyes, Moira brought the beer to her mouth and guzzled the thing. When she re-opened them, she froze. Above her, the cloudless spring night didn’t look quite right. The sky was brighter than it should have, the navy blue losing its color. Was it… _graying?__ _

__It hit her so fast, she almost slid off the bench. Images flashed through her mind, thousands of them and all random. A bright fall afternoon. Cloudless day. Sand—palm trees. An ocean._ _

__Panting, Moira dropped her beer. It shattered on the pavement._ _

__Then, she was walking in a home. It was large like a castle. Octagon windows were built at the ends of the hallways. There was a fireplace in almost every bedroom. Outside, the emerald lawn stretched out and seemed almost as endless as the sky._ _

__Hands shaking, Moira gripped her head. Everything was rushing at her too quickly. But within the images was something else—a feeling. It warmed her, soothing her like the forgotten smell of cologne from an old lover's collar._ _

__Charles._ _

__Eyes blurry, Moira raised her head. In front of her, the parking lot fazed in and out of her vision, mixing with the memories. Things she'd lost and were suddenly sparking back to her mind. And with it, she felt Charles. He was there—somehow controlling the memories—but no words were spoken. It was like his mind was sleepwalking and didn't even realize what it was doing._ _

__Then, just as it had started, the images vanished. His presence was gone._ _

__Gingerly, Moira lowered her hands from her head. She was still sitting on the bench, the broken beer by her side. The acrid smell of alcohol whiffed through her nostrils._ _

__In her mind, however, something that had been lost was suddenly found. The memories she'd forgotten after Moscow to the time she returned back to the CIA had been restored like someone gluing together a broken vase. She remembered travelling to New York to Charles' home. Hanks' transformation—the events at Cuba..._ _

__The moment she raised her gun, watching as the bullets jumped away from Erik like he was swatting at flies. Behind him, Charles was staggering to get up; a bullet was flung from Erik's palm—_ _

__Charles jerked upwards, his back arched, his feet almost leaving the ground. A scream erupted from his lips like nothing Moira had ever heard. And then he fell, his face hitting sand._ _

__As Moira sat on the bench, a tear ran down her cheek. God, she remembered now._ _

__She remembered all of it.__

 _ _xxxxxxxxxxxx__

 _ _Azazel did as Erik instructed; he teleported away to fetch Riptide. Of course, the other man assumed Azazel was searching the crowded streets of Long Beach or perhaps a place in Los Angeles. Neither wound up being his destination._ _

__As the patch of red fog evaporated around him, Azazel stood inside the island base that he and the other mutants had called their home until just recently. The place stood in shambles. The living furniture had been flipped over; all the kitchen cabinets were open, the table and chairs knocked to their sides. The ceiling lights were snarled together, some broken on the floor. Crystal glinted off the carpet._ _

__Inside the spherical room that made up Cerebro, things fared no better. The metal fencing had been yanked apart like two hands tearing a sheet of netting. Lights of blue, red and orange flashed and flickered. The walls hummed like the metal panels were groaning. In the center of the room, the telepath lay. His arms were chained over his head, his legs tangled together. Around his head, the headband glowed a bright blue._ _

__“It’s safe,” Riptide called as he stood by Cerebro’s console, although Azazel noted the other man was still wearing Erik’s helmet. “He doesn't even realize you're here. Come in—take a look for yourself.”_ _

__Marching down the steps into the round room, Azazel reached Riptide. Immediately, the other man shoved a stack of papers at him, pointing to the numbers printed throughout the sheets._ _

__“There's almost a hundred coordinates already," Riptide explained. "And the printer’s still shooting off more as we speak.”_ _

__Azazel surveyed the list. It appeared to be something so simplistic—a jumble of numbers and letters that would lead them to their fellow mutants. As he drew his attention back to the crippled man slumped over Cerebro's platform, however, he knew things were not quite that straightforward. The telepath's face was half-covered by duct tape, his cheeks swollen as if he had something in his mouth. His skin looked clammy; his hair was wet from perspiration. His eyes twitched like he was peering at something far too bright for his pupils to withstand._ _

__Azazel frowned. "He does not look well.”_ _

__"Like it matters," Riptide said. "With all the coordinates we've gathered so far, surely we'll find another telepath if we need one."_ _

__"So you intend to keep him hooked up until he stops feeding you locations?"_ _

__"Or until his heart gives out. Whichever comes first."_ _

__Azazel sighed. "Erik will not like this."_ _

__"Yeah, well…Erik will just have to get over it." Riptide twisted back to the console. "Go ahead and take that first batch of coordinates. Start searching for mutants—no time like the present."_ _

__Stuffing the papers into his suit, Azazel said, "We have a situation. The other mutants have found us. Erik is holding them back, but he has asked for your help."_ _

__Riptide licked his lips like he was tasting something sour. "Well, I'll tell you what, Azazel—you go back to his royal highness and tell him I'm indisposed at the moment. But take your time; maybe if we're lucky, one of those mutant-traitors will kill him off and then we'll be rid of all our problems."__

 _ _xxxxxxxxxxxx__

 _ _Through the air, a thousand pieces of metal flew like missiles. In front of him, Alex Summers managed to blast away any that shot too close to him. Sean Cassidy's sonic screams knocked back even the larger scraps, and Hank was faster than Magneto had given him credit for._ _

__The blue man ducked car doors and metal wedges all the same. He tried his hardest to reach Magneto, his claws extended._ _

__Of course, that wasn't going to happen. Levitating in the air above them, Magneto shielded himself with five car hoods and almost the entire side of the warehouse's metal wall. Even Alex's red beams were deflected away._ _

__All the other mutants were powerful in their own right, but they lacked one thing._ _

__Each required their bodies to do most of the work. Magneto just needed his mind._ _

__So as Azazel flashed back to the parking lot, Magneto decided that he had had enough._ _

__"Stop!" he shouted before the teleporter had a chance to retrieve his sword._ _

__On the ground, the three opposing mutants paused. Their eyes screamed for battle, but as Hank glanced at the others, Alex's chest stopped glowing red. Sean closed his mouth. They stayed alert, ready for any attack Magneto or Azazel might offer._ _

__Magneto floated back to the ground. He allowed the metal shield he'd created to lower to the pavement._ _

__He tossed a glance at Azazel. "So? Where's Riptide?"_ _

__The red man blinked, obviously surprised Magneto was addressing him instead of their opponents. When Magneto didn't turn away, however, Azazel just shook his head._ _

__That was all Magneto needed to know. With a burst of energy, he heaved the metal surrounding him towards Hank, Alex and Sean. The movement was fast; the men tried to dodge it, but that was impossible. The metal slammed into them like a semi-truck to the side of a house._ _

__Magneto could have killed them; it would certainly make things easy. But Magneto wasn't going for easy, not when the three men were fellow mutants and certainly not when they were fighting to save their friend. The same instant the metal fell upon them, Magneto eased up, making sure it didn't crush them. He just needed them out of the way._ _

__He had other enemies to tackle at the moment._ _

__As the three men groaned from underneath the metal scraps, Magneto twisted around to Azazel. He glared at the man, his eyebrows lowered. The teleporter regarded this more with curiosity than caution. Nonetheless, he knelt down, and grabbed his scimitar sword from the parking lot._ _

__"You've been lying to me," Magneto said. "I'm going to offer you one last chance to correct that mistake. _Where is Riptide?_ "_ _

__The other man considered a moment, his eyes sizing up Magneto. Azazel knew the choices before him—he knew what each one would offer. As his features darkened, Magneto understood which decision he'd made._ _

__Azazel burst into a cloud of nothingness. Then, a batch of red smog formed inches from Magneto's side. Something silver swooped down. Magneto sensed it more than saw it—the metal blade. With his power, he trapped the weapon. He held it tight._ _

__The teleporter didn't even flinch. Releasing the sword to Magneto's magnetic hold, he disappeared again—reappeared to Magneto's left. Disappeared again—came to Magneto's back. A boot swiped the back of Magneto's knees; he released a shout and flung the sword behind him._ _

__Azazel was gone, of course, before the blade struck him. He reappeared in front of Magneto—then to his side again. Then to his back again. Azazel surrounded him with red fog, and suddenly, Magneto could see nothing else._ _

__Nonetheless, he could feel the _shifts_. The tiny bits of metal across Azazel's black and red suit. His buttons had metal latches; his pants had a zipper. His boots had metal clasps and steel tips. They were flashing in and out too fast for Magneto to catch in his hold, but he sensed them all regardless. He allowed those senses to guide him._ _

__From the nearby dumpster, metal rattled._ _

__Azazel continued his attack. He tried to punch Magneto—kick him. Stab him with his tail or grab him so he could teleport, and Magneto would end up falling from the sky. As fast as the teleporter was, however, Magneto evaded each blow. He practically knew where Azazel was going before Azazel did._ _

__Then, from the dumpster, Magneto found what he was searching for. Deep underneath the mounds of warehouse scraps and fast food wrappers was a pile of old, broken wiring._ _

__He didn't hesitate. The dumpster exploded as he called to the wire; the strings of metal spun in the air under Magneto's command and charged forward as the red cloud consumed him._ _

__The wiring soared into the fog; it snagged onto something._ _

__There was a gasp._ _

__And then, the teleporter was there before him; the red fog vanished. His head arched up to the sky, Azazel stood with his arms clasped to his sides, the wire ribboned around him from ankles to neck. He tried to flash away, but that was futile. The metal was connected to Magneto's hold and Magneto didn't want it to go anywhere. Within it, Azazel was trapped._ _

__From a few feet away, Magneto listened as the three other men started to come back to their senses. Hank was already trying to shove the metal off of himself. Sean let out a sonic scream, but the metal held strong. Alex cursed, realizing that if he used he powers at that close a range, he'd set himself ablaze._ _

__A little off to the left, Emma was rolling on the ground, clasping her head and groaning more like a burly man than a feminine fatale._ _

__Standing inches from Azazel, Magneto kept one hand outstretched, his head tilted curiously like the other man was more amusing than menacing. With his power, Magneto began tightening the wires across the teleporter's body._ _

__"Now," Magneto said as Azazel winced. "I believe you were about to tell me where I can find Riptide."__

 _ _End of Chapter__


	31. Chapter 31

It seemed so familiar now. Standing in front of the island base’s entrance, Magneto knew every detail of the metal door, every sway of the palm trees around him. The only contrast was the red teleporter lying by his feet. Azazel glared as Magneto started to unlock the base’s door.

“Don’t move,” Magneto said in an almost mocking fashion. 

Then, he opened the door. His feet met the marble flooring.

As he closed the metal slab behind him, he realized swiftly the base only appeared the same on the outside. Within its marble walls, everything was in disarray. Furniture was toppled over, the fencing torn apart. It looked as if there had been a war. 

Of course, none of that mattered. 

Magneto’s attention was pinned to Cerebro. 

To the flashing lights—the humming wall panels.

To Riptide standing beside its console, his gaze cast in irritation more than anger.

Then, Magneto’s eyes fell. On Cerebro’s platform, Charles Xavier lay. His arms were chained over his head. The machine’s headband was strapped around his hair, and even from the door, Magneto could see his friend’s eyes spasming like Charles was trapped in a nightmare and couldn’t wake. 

Upon that image, Magneto felt a coldness course through him. Like a disease streaming through his veins, it ached every muscle. It cooled every pore. His heart beat as though his body was submerged in ice water. 

Arms to his sides, Magneto lumbered forward. He reached Cerebro’s console and gaped at the flickering buttons and activated levers like they were something new. Riptide stood tall, one arm outstretched over the machine as if that alone would protect it.

“How long has he been hooked up to this?” Magneto asked.

At that, Riptide ripped some paperwork from Cerebro's read-out. “We have over a hundred coordinates now. Do you even realize what that means?”

“ _How long?_ ” Magneto asked again, his voice demanding an answer.

Riptide rolled his eyes. “I don’t know—about six hours, I think.”

Six hours. 

Resting his hands on the console’s edge, Magneto lowered his head. At the very bottom of Cerebro, condensation had formed on the metal panels. It wasn’t water, however. It better resembled sewage, leaking across the stone floor like spoiled liquids from a refrigerator. It reeked like it, too. 

Riptide glanced down and then said, “Oh, that. Yeah, I don’t know. The machine started spewing that out after about three hours. It didn’t seem to affect it, so—”

Summoning all his power, Magneto propelled Riptide away. With the metal across the other man’s suit, he tried to toss Riptide across the entire base and perhaps through a wall. But unlike the incident on the yacht, Riptide seemed much more prepared. As he flew from Cerebro, his body started to spin. With it, Magneto lost his hold. By the edge of Cerebro’s steps, Riptide crashed. His feet _clapped_ the stairs. He huffed out a breath like his lungs had just been crushed.

Nonetheless, that hardly slowed him down.

Riptide spun off the staircase, a cascade of air swirling around his body. Magneto felt the metal throughout the other man, but it flickered in and out of his grasp. Throughout the room, the winds swelled. The dining room table and chairs flipped back into the kitchen cabinets. Charles’ bed flung into the wall to its right. Around them, Cerebro groaned in protest, but didn’t shut off.

Then, the whirlwind launched forward. Its precision was impressive—it never touched the machine. Instead, it slammed directly into Magneto. It grabbed a hold of him like a thousand cold hands digging into his body, and then jolted him upwards. 

His body reeled around. The air tugged at his head as if trying to break his neck.

He could see nothing.

That didn't matter, of course. As he sensed the wall panels becoming painfully close, Magneto gripped them within his magnetic hold. Inches from the wall, his body stopped in midair. He floated there, over a story off the ground.

With his power, Riptide pushed at him. The wind whirled around Magneto’s body as thought it was trying to rip his skin off. But Magneto remained upright, steadying himself with Cerebro’s metal.

Then, within his magnetic grip, he spread his hold to the entire machine, to the consoles and the wall panels—to the headband clutched to Charles’ head—to the platform his friend was slumped across. To Cerebro's controls.

Commanding his power, Magneto grabbed a hold of the central lever near the back of the console. He drew it down. Around the room, the deep _humming_ dulled to nothing. The lights across Cerebro’s console darkened. The headband around Charles’ head shifted from glowing blue to dull gray. 

His friend’s eyelids stopped twitching.

But Magneto didn’t stop there. As gusts of wind shot from Riptide’s spinning body, Magneto grabbed the metal around the room. He pulled.

From Cerebro, there came a thunderous _boom_. 

Sweat drizzling down his brow, Magneto pulled again.

The wall panels finally heard his command. Half of them shot off from the wall like an explosion. Across Cerebro’s console, levers and buttons snapped away, clattering to the floor.

Riptide stopped spinning.

With a gasp, he charged back into the room, inspecting Cerebro like it was an injured child instead of a mere machine. As he sucked in the first good lungful of air he’d had in minutes, Magneto lowered himself to the ground. 

“You idiot!” Riptide screamed, wrenching the power lever up and down like that would do a damn bit of good. 

Magneto didn’t bother with Riptide. Hurrying to the platform, he dropped to his knees beside Charles. He slid the headband off his friend’s head. With his power, he unlocked the cuffs and carefully eased the other man’s arms back towards his chest. The limbs were stiff, the skin as cold as a corpse’s. His friend’s eyes remained open, the blue within them pooled in nothingness. The only movement came from his chest. Slowly, it expended and sank as if his lungs were struggling to absorb the oxygen.

Draping his friend across his lap, Magneto pressed his fingers to Charles’ neck, checking his pulse. Forty beats a minute at best.

“God, Erik!” Riptide shouted and slammed a hand into Cerebro’s dead console. “This is exactly what I’ve been talking about! Do you even realize how idiotic this man has made you look? You can lift a submarine from the ocean, but you can’t handle a pathetic cripple?”

Across Charles’ left wrist, the skin was bruised black where the handcuff had been latched. Clearly, he’d been dragged by it.

“You’re not getting this, are you?” Riptide went on and finally turned away from the console. “That man chose his side. He put humans over his own kind—that makes him our enemy. When should we ever grant our enemies mercy?”

Kicking one of the fallen wall panels out of his path, Riptide tramped away from Cerebro. By the stairs, he fixed his hands to his hips, obviously evaluating the damage.

“Shit, Erik. You just set us back another week at least.”

Gently, Erik peeled the duct tape from Charles’ mouth. Between his friend's lips, something white caught Erik’s attention. Furrowing his brow, he pinched his thumb and point finger to the object. He withdrew it. The cotton tissue slid out as smoothly as silk. Erik lifted it, allowing the damp thing to dangle from his fingertips.

From the staircase, Riptide huffed a breath. “You knew it had to come to this. He wasn’t going to help us—he needed to know who was in control…”

On the platform, there was a stain of crimson. Dried—pasty. Erik glanced at Charles’ right arm; he spotted the gash immediately. The bleeding had stopped hours before, the cut red, the skin surrounding it pink and violet. 

Without peering up, Magneto extended his arm. From Riptide’s ankle, the dagger flipped through the air until it found Magneto’s waiting hand. Clasping its handle, Magneto examined the blade. The blood had dried across the metal as well.

Then, from the stairs came a snort of laughter. Riptide shook his head as if the entire situation was just too ridiculous for him to withstand.

“I knew it,” he said. “From the moment we left Cuba, I knew it. All those fancy words you preached to us on the beach—it was all nonsense, wasn’t it, Erik? I wanted to believe you; I honestly did. The way you took care of Shaw…I didn’t even know that man could die. But now I know—that was just a matter of luck, wasn’t it? You just got lucky.”

Holding the blade in his hand, Magneto stared at Charles, absorbing the whole picture. His friend's lips were parted just slightly. His pupils were dilated. His eyes were unblinking, his gaze forever peering outwards.

Empty.

Lost.

“…you never had what it would take to lead us,” Riptide kept on. “You were never willing to make the sacrifices to lead anyone. You can’t even take care of a helpless little gimp—"

Magneto flung out his hand. The dagger escaped his fingertips. Whatever words stirring in Riptide’s throat were silenced. The room quieted, only the soft hum of the ceiling lights offering any noise within the abrupt calm.

Erik didn’t give Riptide another thought. He leaned down to Charles, and placed a hand on his friend’s face. “If you can hear me, Charles, I’m taking you out of here. I’m going to get you help. All you need to do is hold on. Simply hold on, my friend.”

Tucking his arms underneath the unconscious man, Erik heaved him off the platform. He carried him towards the door; the metal slab opened and then shut as soon as they passed.

—From inside the base, Riptide fell to his knees. His hands gripped his dagger. The blade was lodged deep within his neck; from the edge of his vision, all he could see was the handle. All he felt was the blood. It gushed from his throat, spilling down his expensive gray suit until the fabric was nothing but maroon.

Then, Riptide collapsed, dead before his skull ever hit the floor.

**End of Chapter**


	32. Chapter 32

"Help! I need help here!" Erik shouted as he shoved the ER's door out of his way. In his arms, Charles’ body was limp; the other man's left arm was slumped across his chest, his right one dangling lifelessly from Erik's grasp.

The ER's lobby was flooded with soon-to-be patients and family members. A man clutched a bloody towel to his arm. A woman sat with a puke bucket beside her. There were children in the waiting area as well, sweaty and sick like a classroom for the infected. The stench of vomit and body odor practically poisoned the air.

From behind a reception desk, a dark-skinned nurse with an afro hurried from her desk, curiosity wrinkling her face. As her sneakers squeaked to a stop in front of them, she checked Charles' pulse and then sprang a flashlight from her skirt's pocket.

"When did he lose consciousness?" she asked as she flicked the light in Charles' eyes.

His pupils didn't contract.

"I wasn't there," Erik said. 

The curiosity on her visage darkened; the woman reeled around to the reception area again. She hollered at a couple more nurses, noting Charles' non-reactive pupils and weak pulse. _Get a stretcher. Get a doctor_ …it happened with the speed of a lightening bolt striking a tree.

A stretcher appeared from one of the back rooms along with two men in white coats and another nurse. Then, Charles was taken from Erik's care and placed on the stretcher. The side bars were snapped up with a _clank_ on both sides.

Erik followed the herd from the lobby and through a set of swinging doors. 

"What's his name?" one of the nurses asked.

"When did you find him?" asked another.

"Does he have a past history of seizures?"

"Is he allergic to anything?"

Further down the hall, the mind-numbing silence of the ER's lobby was replaced by a horrid drone of nurses and doctors shouting orders, and computers beeping and humming. Nurses and orderlies raced from room-to-room with supplies of surgical packets and blood bags. A repugnant smell of latex and sterilizing solution overpowered the place.

In front of Erik, the medical staff continued barking questions at him as they rushed into a private room. Across the walls dangled wires and enough electronic equipment to power a small city.

"Does he have any medical conditions?" one of the nurses asked.

Erik cleared the knot in his throat. "He’s a paraplegic," he replied from the door.

Encircling Charles, the doctors shouted his name. A nurse brought out an IV bag. A heart monitor was strapped to his left arm.

"How long ago was he injured?" the same nurse asked.

"Six months.” 

The nurse darted away. She reached one of the doctors, tugged on his arm, and talked into his ear like she was divulging secrets. 

The cluster of medical staff didn't slow. They hovered around Charles, examining his head and body like his heart would flat-line at any second. A nurse whipped out a pair of cutting shears and took them to Charles' pants.

Then, one of the other medical staff hustled Erik towards the hallway. The door swung open and then shut, and then Erik stood in the corridor, his eyes gaped at the dark hickory slab in front of him. 

The door didn't open again.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Dr. Napier's office was the generic type for any doctor. A stylish mahogany desk sat in its center, a cascade of family portraits conquering its edges; every earned certificate was paraded on the walls like the man was trying to over-compensate for something.

Seated in a chicken yellow wing-chair, Erik stared at the doctor as the other man skimmed through Charles' medical chart. It had only been two hours since Erik had brought him in, and somehow the file had gotten fat.

The doctor continued reading like Erik wasn’t there; inside, Erik tried to ward off his frustration. The last time he'd been in a building full of humans, he and his mutants were infiltrating the CIA. With just a little concentration, he'd managed to defeat his opponents and obtain exactly what he desired. Those who dared oppose him were the ones that ended up dead.

Now, he was sitting across from a doctor who didn't even give him a passing glance.

After another minute, the doctor peeled his reading glasses from his face and finally peeked up. On his face, there was a cloak of disinterest that Erik didn't particularly like.

"First of all," the man spoke as he dumped his glasses to his desk, "I need to ask what your relationship is with the patient."

Erik considered, and then said, "He's my brother."

"All right, Mr. Xavier," the doctor went on, obviously assuming Erik and Charles shared the same last name, "here is what is happening right now. We are still performing tests on Charles, and while we have not found the cause of his current condition, we have suspicions of what it might be."

Erik raised a hand. "Just answer this—will he be all right?"

"It is common," the doctor continued as if Erik had said nothing, "for spinal cord injury victims to suffer from blood clots in their legs. This is due, of course, to their paralysis, and is especially dangerous within the first year. With hospital stays and rehabilitation, secondary conditions such as this can endanger their lives more so than the initial injury.

"Pulmonary embolisms are the most common of these," the doctor explained. "However, your brother is breathing on his own and we can find no evidence of a blood clot in his lungs. Therefore, we believe one has managed to travel all the way to his brain."

"A stroke?" Erik finished for him.

The doctor bobbed his head. "Yes, it would appear that way."

"But you have no proof of that." 

"Like I said, we're performing tests on your brother as we speak. But his current symptoms all correlate with a stroke victim."

_No_ , Erik thought. _It's not as simple as that. It can't be._

Burying his head in his hands, Erik inhaled deeply. His heart ached, the blood feeling like it was carting shards of ice with it. His fingers were cold against his forehead.

"As of right now," the doctor continued. "Your brother is in a vegetative state. He is not responding to external stimuli; his pupils are not reacting to light. There is no change in his heart rate when presented with loud noises or any pain assessment exams—"

Erik waved his right hand for the doctor to quiet. After 'vegetative state,' all the words sounded like they were being spoken through a damaged speaker. 

From the door, there came a knock. Erik didn't bother glancing up; he didn't even notice the heavy-set woman until she plopped down next to him.

"Excuse me," the woman spoke, her voice almost as deep as a man's. "My name is Vivian Rainer. I'm a social worker here at the hospital."

Erik rotated his head to the right.

The woman's expression was dreadfully harsh. "I need to ask you a few questions," she explained as she opened a notebook. There was a pen already glued to her hand. "Are you Charles' primary caregiver?"

A dark premonition hit Erik in the gut. "No.”

The woman wrote something. "You have proof of that?"

"What's this about?"

"Just answer the questions, please."

"Not until you elaborate on their purpose."

With a huff, the woman lowered her pen. "All right," she spoke as if Erik had offended her. "Your brother has lesions across his body. There's scratches on the left side of his face that are at least a week old. A two-inch cut on his arm. There's bruising around his left wrist, and he appears severely malnourished. All these are signs of someone who has suffered domestic abuse."

She raised her eyebrows and her pen at the same time as if ready for Erik to confess something. With that, Erik dared a glimpse at the doctor; he, too, gazed onwards like Erik had blood on his hands. As he observed them both trying to stare him down, Erik realized that wasn't too far from the truth. In fact, it was the truth. 

But none of that could be changed now. Erik already knew what he wanted to ask next. He just didn't want the answer.

Meeting the doctor's gaze, Erik said, “What will happen to him now?"

Dr. Napier's expression was as indifferent as the walls around him. But on his desk, his hands tightened a little. "Even if he wakes up, there is little chance your brother will ever fully recover from this type of trauma. I'm sorry."

**End of Chapter**


	33. Chapter 33

Charles was stable. That was the best news Dr. Napier could provide, and as Erik stood by his friend's bedside, his arms were folded tight to his chest. Charles lay on the mattress, a starched white bed sheet draping him from chest to feet. His eyes remained open. His arms rested outside the covers with tubes protruding from his skin like he was a component of a machine and nothing more.

That was, after all, what Erik had reduced him to already. At the base.

The doctors had made their conclusions. Charles had suffered a stroke; it was the easiest explanation, after all. They expected he wouldn't recover, or if he did, he'd be a vegetable, hardly better than the unconscious man lying there in at that instant.

Gingerly, Erik extended his hand. He wrapped his fingers around Charles' left wrist, just above the dark ring of purple staining his skin. Words ached in Erik's throat, but he didn't bother with any. He had been such a fool. He had allowed the other mutants to manipulate his better judgment, to make an enemy of their own kind like dogs eating each other.

_Never again_.

He slid his hand away. 

Like his feet was attached to the floor, Erik trudged away from his friend’s bedside, and then down the hall. He passed Mrs. Rainer; the hefty woman tracked him with her eyes. She was already trying to obtain records to figure out if what Erik had told her was the truth. 

Erik wandered into the hospital's lobby. Near the exit was a set of stairs and he followed them to the basement. Down below, the image appeared quite different than the upper floors. The hallways were more narrow, the personnel more scarce. He marched past all of them, weaving his way through the labyrinth. Soon, even the staff were few and far between. He found the door.

The wood was old and heavy. On the front of it, someone had taped a "Call Maintenance" sign with bright yellow paper. The door knob was contorted, squished like a bug—the lock no better. Erik should know. He was the one who had busted the thing.

As he flung a glance once more down the corridor for nearby personnel, he lifted his hand. The lock did as he obeyed and the knob twisted. Prying the door open, Magneto peered down. A few feet from the entrance to the supply closet, a pile of wires were clumped together on the floor. The person that had been within them—gone.

Erik didn’t react. He had dumped Azazel into the closet hours before, and holding onto him while dealing with all the drama unfolding upstairs had proved impossible. Perhaps Erik just hadn’t cared at that moment. Or perhaps, he knew if Azazel had still been there when Erik opened that door again, Erik might have just decided to kill the teleporter and be done with it.

Azazel deserved to die. Just like Riptide, he had made an enemy out of his own kind and allowed his ‘comrade’ to strap Charles to that machine until the telepath’s mind crumpled under its own power.

But was Erik any better?

Erik closed the door. He swept any thoughts about Azazel to the back of his mind. He had other concerns at the moment.

Turning from the door, he headed back upstairs. To his friend, who was stable. Erik remembered the last time that word was used to describe Charles—in his medical file at the physical therapy center. About his spinal cord injury. Erik also recalled what it really meant.

It was another way of saying _permanent_.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

By the time Hank, Sean and Alex were able to squirm out of the mound of metal scraps Erik had landed on top of them, all the other mutants had disappeared. Erik and Azazel had gotten into some type of quarrel; although Hank couldn’t make out what was said, he still heard the fight even with a ton of metal on his back. Emma didn't seem to have been involved, but she wasn't there when Hank freed himself.

He and the others waited at Castlebrook for hours, but Erik never returned. Back to square one, it seemed.

It took twice as long to reach the abandoned cabin than Hank would have hoped. After their confrontation at the warehouse, all three men ended getting lost on more than one occasion as they ventured back to Angel and Raven.

It was early morning when they finally found the right gravel driveway and made their way up the hill to the cabin. The place was old—a good place for a squatter to nestle for awhile. A good place for them as well, it seemed.

Lugging himself up to the front porch, Hank settled his hand on the doorknob. As he opened the door, he heard Raven before he ever saw her.

"Oh, my God!" the girl screamed from the corner. "We have to pee!"

As Hank's eyes adjusted from the sunlight outside, he found Angel and Raven exactly where he had left them. In the cabin's corner, they sat on a dingy sofa together. Their hands were tied back-to-back; their chests wrapped with more duct tape than one roll could provide. Across Angel's face and around her hair was another wrapping of the dull gray tape, keeping her flaming mucus to herself. Her complexion was oddly pale, her eyes more tired than they should have been.

It was a nasty sight, one Hank certainly didn't want be associated with. Nonetheless, as he stepped inside with Sean and Alex at his back, all he could say was, "Sorry we're late."

"Untie us, you giant asses!" Raven screamed. "Now! _Right now!_ "

"Don't get your undies in a knot," Alex came back. "We're here—stop shouting."

Raven groaned loud enough to make Hank cringe all over. Behind her, Angel had turned her head, granting all three men the look of death.

They'd have to be cautious. Untying Raven from Angel, Hank helped get her to the bathroom, and then the other girl. Arms and mouth still duct taped, Angel hobbled into the bathroom like her body couldn’t hold its own weight.

They got the girls back to the sofa. Untied from each other, Hank finally pried the duct tape from Angel's lips. 

"If one fireball escapes your mouth," he warned, "then you're going to have to learn to communicate through eye signals."

The girl gawked at him like he was nuts, but when no fire shot from her lips, it was clear she understood. Hank unwrapped a Twinkie and handed it to Raven. Glaring, she accepted it and chowed down.

"So, what's your plan here?" she asked as she swallowed the first bite. "You gonna keep us prisoner until we crack?"

Hank rolled his eyes.

Her face pasty, Angel refused the pink Snowball Sean offered her.

"Just tell us where Charles is," Hank said. "You do that, and we'll take you back to your group of misfits."

"We can't do that," Angel replied with a touch of exhaustion to her voice.

Hank gave her a once-over. Even with her sickly complexion, the determination still shone through. She believed she was taking a hit for her team, enduring captivity for an ultimate goal. Beside her, however, Raven's face was far from confident. Yes, there was anger, but the guilt radiating off her eyes could have lit up a cave.

"Raven," Hank spoke softly. "We know Erik took Charles to use Cerebro. We know that there are others in your group who are not as kind-hearted as you are. That puts Charles in a dangerous situation."

Raven was already shaking her head. "Erik's working on this. Himself."

"Azazel and Erik got into a fight at the warehouse," Alex cut in. "There's mutiny in your group, Raven. And I'm guessing, it has everything to do with Charles and that machine."

Raven shifted her gaze between Hank and Alex as if trying to figure out if they were telling the truth.

"We don't know who won," Hank said. "They were gone by the time we were able to escape."

"No," Raven replied. "Neither of them would do that."

"Well, they did," Alex came back. 

" _No_ ," Raven snapped like the word itself would make it true.

With that, Hank's stomach churned. He'd expect this from Erik, but the seriousness of the situation didn't appear to be getting through to Raven, either. And she should know better.

"You're not who I thought you were," Hank finally told her. "I don't even think you're what Charles thought you were, and he's a telepath."

"This coming from the guy who had to untie me just so I could use the bathroom."

"You don't even realize it, do you? What Charles has been going through?"

"Don't start with me."

It was sudden; even Hank didn't know what he was doing until he was right there. Towering over her, he glared at Raven right in the face, his yellow eyes peering sharply into hers.

"He was shot in the back!" he screamed. "The bullet severed his spine—he'll never walk again! And you—you just left him. On that beach, you just disappeared like he was nothing to you!"

"That's not fair," she hissed. "I couldn't stay there. I couldn't hide anymore!"

"He needed you! You're the only family he had, and you abandoned him for…what, Raven? Because you didn't feel pretty?"

Her eyes turned into hot pokers. "Like you're one to talk. You've transformed yourself into a furry beast because you couldn't live with big feet. Who the hell are you to judge me?"

Her words struck a nerve, and suddenly, Hank felt his strength waning. He glanced down at his blue hands. It wouldn't have been so painful if it weren't true.

"Let me ask you something," Raven kept on. "Since your transformation, have you even left the mansion until now? Because I'm guessing no."

Hank closed his eyes.

"If you think that's all there is to it," Raven continued, "that I left because I was tired of feeling ugly, then you never knew me. I left because I believe Erik. Charles knew that. That's why he told me to go."

As Hank reopened his eyes, Raven’s were there. Her gaze, so dark a moment before, had soothed some. "I didn't want to leave him there," she said. "I had to. I _had to_ , Hank."

He allowed her words to sink in. Behind him, Alex and Sean stood silently as if they were bodyguards ready to pounce if needed. But this argument was all Hank and they knew it.

Nonetheless, it wasn’t an argument he could win, and it didn't really matter whether or not he did. What was relevant at that moment was getting Charles back.

On that thought, Hank asked, "Do you have to now? Leave him, Raven? Because I'll bestow this bit of information upon you—Charles is in trouble. He was in trouble long before Erik came for him. Even if Erik truly is in control of this situation, I assure you, Charles is at his breaking point. He needs help. So…will you help him before it's too late?"

Raven swept a glance from Hank, to Sean and then Alex as if waiting for one of them to cut into the conversation. Hank waited, wondering if Raven would finally do the right thing.

After a minute however, the guilt on the girl's face only deepened. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But I can't help you."

**End of Chapter**


	34. Chapter 34

For most, the Pacific Ocean was a delight to behold. Especially on those mornings—sunny and warm—the right ingredients for serenity. Azazel wasn’t a particularly serene person. He worked best in conflict, when the clouds began to gather and the thunder would _boom_. Anything else seemed lackluster.

Standing by the bed in his quarters, Azazel peered at the coordinates Riptide had given him. It was all of them—almost all, at least. Azazel hadn’t bothered going back to the base since Riptide’s death. 

Poor, stupid man. 

His demise made this triumph bittersweet. The coordinates would permit the mutants to rise together, their powers unlimited. Unstoppable. Nonetheless, as Azazel considered the way his friend had died, the fury surging throughout him almost made his skin a deeper shade of red.

Magneto would pay for what he’d done. 

But first, more pressing matters required attention. Dropping the papers to his nightstand, Azazel flashed into a cloud of red. He needed to find Emma; they had already set up an emergency rendezvous near the docks and if she stuck to their plans, then finding her shouldn’t prove difficult. She needed to know what Magneto had done. Soon after, they’d go on the hunt to rescue the others. Angel would surely join their cause, especially after Riptide’s murder. But Mystique…Azazel wasn’t so certain. He needed to find her before Magneto did. 

If he was lucky enough, Azazel could convince her Magneto was their enemy.

All the other mutants were.

As Shaw had once told them, “If you’re not with us, you’re against us.”

Azazel had every intention to follow that dogma.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Day two. It was just past eight o'clock in the morning, but it could have been any time of day. In the ICU, Charles shared a room with two other men and there were no windows to prove an outside world existed. 

Erik sat by Charles' bed. The other man lay motionless as he had since early yesterday morning. Nurses had shifted him this way and that to prevent pressure ulcers. At the side of the bed, a urine bag gradually swelled. An IV dripped fluids into his veins; the heart monitor beeped its forty times per minute like it was a dying wristwatch.

Erik sank back in his chair. He rubbed his face. Even if the doctors weren't right—that Charles hadn't suffered a stroke—the results might end up the same. And all of it was Erik's fault. He knew Charles would refuse to operate Cerebro. He had known that since agreeing to Riptide's plan.

Then, why did he agree to it?

Even before the question completely surfaced, Erik already had the answer, and it was so simplistic, it almost made him sick. He had to see for himself. He had to know what really happened to his old friend, to resolve what had been left on that beach. Cerebro had been such an easy excuse. Erik thought he could control the other mutants, to get everything he wanted. 

His army…and perhaps even his old friend.

Erik extended a hand and rested it on Charles' forehead. The other man's skin felt clammy and cold like no blood could reach it. Erik had already taken half of Charles away six months before. Now, he'd completed the job.

He removed his hand. Unable to withstand it any further, Erik forced himself up. He walked away. It was morning, and he needed some air.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

With the assistance of one of the orderlies, Dr. Jeffery Napier rolled the electroencephalography machine down the hallway of the ICU. It was a heavy, clunky thing; the metal wheels at the bottom did little to aid the journey. He felt like he was dragging the machine across sand instead of tiles. 

In truth, it was a much smaller EEG than the last machine they had. He and the other medical staff could either roll it to the patient or roll the patient to it. Napier preferred the latter—no tubes and bodily fluids to cart around.

"One more turn," he said, and with the orderly's help, pushed the EEG through the doorway.

It was still early, but for the patient in question, interrupting his sleep wasn't a concern.

Charles Xavier. The man was as immobile as the bed he was resting on.

"God, why do we keep checking on this?" the orderly, Ronald Hardesty, grumbled as he and Napier stopped in front of Xavier's bedside. "This poor bastard's brain is as burnt up as black toast."

Napier shot a look around the room—Xavier's brother was nowhere in sight and certainly not in earshot. It surprised Napier that the man hadn't fled, given the evidence of abuse his brother had sustained. 

"Get the electrodes on him," Napier said to Ronald, referring to the cap-like recording net with dozens of metal prongs sticking from its surface. 

With a dramatic sigh, the orderly did as instructed, securing the net on Xavier's head and strapping it around the patient's jaw line. Xavier lay still, his eyes peering at nothing. 

Yes, this was a waste of time. Napier knew it. Even the orderly understood that. They had performed an EEG on Xavier when he first arrived, then again the night before. Everything about his symptoms screamed apallic syndrome—a vegetative state. A wakeful unconsciousness.

It was typical for someone who suffered a severe stroke.

The last two EEGs recorded high levels of alpha frequencies, more common for someone in a coma than a vegetative state, but the results proved the same. Xavier's mind was lost.

Nonetheless, Napier plugged the EEG into the wall and started flipping switches on the machine like what he was doing held any true significance. It wasn't really about checking the patient's brainwaves. When the boy finally died, which would probably occur in the next few months, Napier would at least have clear documentation of what had happened to him. 

It would prove essential when his brother was arrested and herded off to jail for abuse and neglect. 

"All right, he's hooked up and ready to go," Ronald said and gestured at the recording net as though he deserved a medal for securing it on the patient's head.

Napier ignored the temptation to roll his eyes. "Thank you," he said and turned back to the machine.

Switching a few more levers, he flipped the thing on. Immediately, the paper started rolling, the metal pens flicking across its surface, marking the bleach-white with black ink. 

Planting himself next to Napier, Ronald crossed his arms as if he disapproved of this whole process.

Napier ignored him. The paper kept flowing, the pens waving. 

After a minute, Napier furrowed his brow. He glanced at the patient, then the machine, and then stepped to Xavier's bedside.

"What?" Ronald said behind him as Napier inspected the recording net. "I got it on right. I've done this a thousand times already."

Napier checked it anyway. The cap rested on the top of Xavier's head, strapped in tight and making him resemble a man about to be put into an electric chair. Nonetheless, as Napier realized the electrodes were in the correct position, a wave of bewilderment rushed through him like an electric shock.

He glanced back at the orderly. Standing by the machine, Ronald's eyes scanned the read-out; although the man had no real medical training, he had worked at the hospital long enough to know what he was looking at. Confusion masked his features; his jaw slacked.

Napier imagined the same expression was reflected on his own face. 

The machine continued printing off the brain frequencies. Not the repetitive alpha waves it had been recording the day before. But that of alpha's and beta's with a few delta's in the mix…something so utterly impossible, something that just couldn't be, and yet, there it was, staring Napier in the face—

The EEG of a normal, healthy brain.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

A cup of coffee in tow, Erik returned to the hospital's fifth floor. As soon as the elevator opened, however, he knew something wasn't right. From the nurses' station, the women chattered. Orderlies hooked their eyes to Erik like he was about to step in front of a Broadway headliner.

For a second, Erik assumed the problem laid with the social worker; perhaps she had discovered Erik's story was nonsense. Nonetheless, as Erik noted the doctors swarming near the end of the corridor by Charles' room, a new fear surfaced.

He dumped the coffee in the nearby trash and hurried down the hall.

Inside Charles' room, at least a dozen medical personnel crowded the place. Erik weaved his way through, waiting to see the inevitable—the heart monitor humming instead of beeping. His friend having a ventilator shoved down his throat; the doctors slamming their fists into his chest in a desperate feat to spark life back into his body. As Erik caught the expression on the medical staffs' faces, however, a wave of bewilderment replaced any dread he was experiencing.

Smiles. They were pointing and shaking their heads like what they were seeing before them was a wonder instead of a tragedy.

Erik reached the end of Charles’ bed. 

"Charles!" Dr. Napier was shouting. "Wake up, Charles!"

On the mattress, the unconscious man had been turned to his left. Some type of cap with cords rested above his head on a pillow. Hovering over him, the doctor had one hand clasped to Charles' right arm; in the other, he held a flashlight. Napier flickered the beam across Charles' eyes; they didn't blink. But even from the edge of the bed, Erik noticed it.

Charles' pupils contracted.

"What's happening?" Erik muttered to anyone who might hear him.

"Dr. Napier was checking your brother's EEG this morning," one of the nurses explained. "His brain's returned to normal like someone flipped a switch."

Wide-eyed, Erik continued observing as the doctor called Charles' name—as he shook Charles' arm like a father trying to rouse a stubborn child from slumber. Napier lowered the flashlight. He took his free hand into Charles'.

"If you can hear me," Napier said, "then squeeze my hand. Come on, son."

Erik's senses collected themselves. Sliding between the bed and the crowd surrounding it, he knelt down beside his friend. Gently, he moved the doctor's arm away and grabbed Charles' hand in his own.

"Squeeze down," he told him.

Nothing.

"Squeeze my hand, Charles," Erik said again.

With the exception of his pupils, no other movement hinted on his friend's face. His expression remained as empty as the dead. But in Erik's hand, something stirred. It was subtle, but Erik felt it. Charles' thumb twitched.

A second later, his point finger did the same. Then, his hand curled inwards, the hold as weak as an infant's and just as overwhelming. 

Erik squeezed his hand back. Around the room, the nurses applauded like it was a sport's game and their team just made the winning pass. Beside Erik, the doctor went back to shaking Charles. He flicked his flashlight in his eyes again, and again the pupils reacted.

"Charles," Napier continued. "Say something, son. Try to speak."

Slowly, Charles' eyelids fell. His mouth closed. He squinted like all the fuss around him was hurting his head. Then, with one single breath, he muttered, " _Stop shaking me_."

Retracting his hand, Napier gazed at Charles as if waiting for him to say more. Then a breath of laughter escaped the doctor's lips. The nurses patted Charles' arms and legs like they were congratulating him.

In Erik's ears, all the noise was drowned out. The world seemed to slow, the frantic movements of the crowd waving through the room like people moving underwater. The only image that remained real was Charles, as the other man's eyes finally met Erik's. In them, a deep sadness glimmered like Charles wasn't as enthralled about waking up as the men and women surrounding him.

**End of Chapter**


	35. Chapter 35

**Hi, everyone. I just wanted to jump in here really quick and let you know I've launched a new blogging site. It's for my fan fictions, currently discussing issues revolved around X-men. The first blog compares movie Charles and comic book Charles, and there's a quick news flash about the sudden exit of Matthew Vaughn as director to the X-men prequel-sequel. The website is[www.erinjensen.wordpress.com](http://www.erinjensen.wordpress.com)**

**And now, on to the fan fiction...**

**Chapter 35…**

Charles remembered this place. He had been there once before and recently at that. A hospital room. The indifferent ashen walls—the consistent droning of nurses talking and doctors' dress shoes _clip-clapping_ the tiles. The stench of all things 'sterile.' It was almost an exact replica of his room in the hospital in Florida, down to the noises and smells.

Of course, things had been different then. After Cuba, the naval ships retrieved him and the others, and almost immediately, he was hustled onto a helicopter towards American soil. Everyone had been in such a rush. They rushed him into the hospital. They rushed him to an operating room. They pressed a mask to his face and had him count down from a hundred.

He had no time to think he might die. 

He had no time to grasp what all had happened to his body.

Things were no longer rushed. Now, it felt as if the world was going one speed slower than he was. Everything was dragging.

Dr. Napier had Charles transferred to a private room, away from the ICU and the constant commotion of people dying. Charles wasn't dying. Charles was doing great. That's what all the medical staff told him like he had passed some kind of test.

Charles knew better.

That was why, as Erik came back into his hospital room that afternoon, all Charles could do was frown. Erik didn't. No helmet cradled his head—no stone cold expression clouded his features, but somehow, the other man still didn't resemble Charles' old friend from six months before. Charles wasn't certain why exactly. Erik's eyes glinted with relief and there was even a smile.

Maybe it wasn't Erik who had changed. 

"You're sitting up," the man commented as if such a feat deserved a medal. He sailed into the room and dropped down into a chair beside the bed.

Charles blinked slowly like his eyelids were too tired to give a damn.

Erik reclined back. "You should listen to the nurses' station. They think you're a miracle of some sort."

"Have them come in here, then," Charles replied. "That should set them straight."

Finally, the grin on Erik's face lowered. Clearing his throat, he bent forward, and mounted his elbows to his thighs. "This never should have happened."

"I knew that weeks ago, Erik. Where have you been?"

"I didn't send him there." 

He was talking about Riptide; instantly, Charles felt the anger barreling up his throat, ready to explain all the reasons that was irrelevant. But what good would it do? When had anything Charles said to Erik ever make an impact? The anger felt toxic in Charles' veins, but more than that, the exhaustion…Dear God, just the idea of continuing this pointless bickering made Charles feel as though he was a hundred years old. He couldn’t change what happened—he couldn't change anything about his life. The fury sank back into Charles' stomach. 

"I know that," was all he whispered.

"He's gone," Erik continued. "You don't have to worry about him again."

At that, Charles' eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"You know.”

Yes, Charles knew. Erik didn't gloss over such things.

For a second, the memories of the base—at the mercy of Riptide—flooded back. Charles being torn from his bed—having the bloody knife clutched to his throat like the other man was fighting the urge to slice through skin. The moment when Riptide dragged Charles to Cerebro, forcing the headband over his hair—Riptide leering down. He had enjoyed tormenting him. 

Then, everything was washed away in a cloud of gray fog.

Charles' mind—his body. None of it mattered.

It mattered now. And now, another man was dead in the wake of it all.

"It's not what I wanted," Charles finally muttered.

"But it's what was needed," Erik said. "This is my brotherhood, Charles. Not his—not Shaw's. You don't have to concern yourself with us anymore."

Erik intended for those words to be comforting. They weren't. The other man had meant what he said, but somehow, Charles couldn't find it in himself to believe him. It couldn't be over, not with Erik trying to build his army and preparing for war. Things would never be that simplistic; Charles had learned that lesson already.

"Here," Erik said and pulled something from his pants' pocket.

It was a piece of paper; he set it in Charles' hand.

As Charles focused on the typed numbers and letters across the page, his anger sparked back to life. His hand balled into a fist. 

It was the read-out from Cerebro that Erik had shown him weeks before.

"Don't," Erik exclaimed and grabbed Charles' hand with both of his. Carefully, he pried Charles' fingers away from the page. 

Charles dropped his head back to his pillow; he averted his gaze to the ceiling.

Holding the paper with Charles' hand, Erik continued, "Don't ruin good opportunities, Charles, no matter where they originate from. This list has over a dozen coordinates on it of children, ones who would benefit from what you're doing."

Shutting his eyes, Charles held back the temptation to reach out his other hand and rip the paper to shreds.

"Look at me," Erik called.

Charles didn't budge.

"Please," Erik said.

Opening his eyelids, Charles twisted his head back to Erik. The other man's face exuded conviction like he was preaching rather than talking.

"The school is a good idea," Erik said. "There are others like us out there and they're alone. I don't want that any more than you do. Build your school. Take in our kind. Teach them—care for them—shelter them. And live your life there, with them."

Charles studied his old friend, wondering if his last words were more of a warning than guidance. "And what do you intend to do?" he asked.

"I'll take care of the rest.”

From the door frame came a subtle _rapping_. Erik didn't bother to turn, but a grin toyed with his lips. As he narrowed his eyebrows, Charles peered up.

His heart almost exploded from his chest.

Standing in front of the open doorway, the woman looked almost exactly how he remembered. Dressed in a simple short-sleeved green shirt and black skirt, she smiled at him, her beautiful auburn hair curling around her face. It had grown longer since he'd seen her last.

"Moira," the name breezed from Charles' lips.

At that, Erik stood. He gestured a hand for her to enter and then brought his attention back to Charles. Both men held their gazes for an instant, and even without telepathy, Charles knew what Erik was thinking. It was exactly what he was thinking as well. This might be the last time they'd see each other. 

For a heartbeat, a resigned look flashed on Erik's face, but before it could settle there, he turned away. He walked towards the door, passing by Moira without a glance her direction. He never looked back. Just as he had reappeared in Charles' life, he vanished just as quickly. 

Charles knew he should have been relieved, but he wasn't. He didn't know what to think of it. He wasn't really angry; he wasn't really _anything_. He just felt…numb.

Moira hurried to Charles' bedside. She sat in Erik's seat and took Charles' hand as he held tight to the paper still wedged between his palm and fingers.

"Charles," Moira said in her sweet, gentle voice. "Are you all right?"

He remembered that question. Back home, he had been hounded by Katherine and Hank—by random doctors and nurses and physical therapists—all asking him the same thing as if they were all sharing a single mind. And his reply had been the same; he was fine. He was splendid. He was doing wonderfully, thanks for the concern.

A knot swelled in his throat; for the first time, he didn't try to clear it away. Resting his other hand on top of Moira's, he told her softly, "No. I'm not."

End of Chapter

**Don't forget to check out my blog at[www.erinjensen.wordpress.com](http://www.erinjensen.wordpress.com)**


	36. Chapter 36

**Hey, everyone! I just wanted to let you know that I have new blog entries on my site,[www.erinjensen.wordpress.com](http://www.erinjensen.wordpress.com), including one regarding the myths about spinal cord injuries. I did a lot of research about paraplegia for this story, so if you want to know more about Charles' condition, take a look (the direct link is [here](http://erinjensen.wordpress.com/2012/11/01/myths-sci)). And there's a nice blog about the fan fiction's cover art on the homepage, including the full-version which has Magneto front and center along with Charles.**

**Chapter 36...**

The cabin didn’t appear much better in the late afternoon than it did at night. Mold was devouring the log walls, cobwebs conquered the corners and the stench of vomit had nestled in. Unfortunately, the latter issue wasn’t due to the rotting walls.

On a chair opposite the sofa where Raven and Alex sat, Hank didn’t bother talking. Any arguments had been stifled by the sound seeping through the bathroom’s door. Inside, Angel was practically vomiting organs now. 

Standing by the bathroom’s entrance, Sean grimaced, his pinkish face practically green. The girl had been doing that all day. Earlier, Hank had spent most of his time trying to convince Raven to give up Erik. 

All of that was put on the backburner as Angel’s illness took over. She’d complained about headaches and blurred vision; Hank thought she’d might have been faking it. As her _gag—barf_ resonated throughout the cabin, he was reconsidering his original suspicions.

Out of the bathroom, the black-haired beauty wandered out. On her face, a towel. They didn’t bother tying her up anymore. They made that mistake a few hours before; Hank still had vomit in his fur.

As Angel sat beside Raven again, Hank already knew something had to be done. The girl had gotten knocked down pretty hard at Castlebrook, and might have lost consciousness.

“Sean,” Hank said. “You have a pretty good idea how to get out of here now, right?"

“Uh,” the other man shrugged, “yeah, I could find my way, I guess. Why?”

Hank didn’t want to do it—after all, the only real leverage they had were the girls. Nonetheless, he wasn't about to risk anybody's life if he could help it.

He nodded towards Angel. "We’re letting her go," he said to Alex and Sean.

"What?" Alex instantly came back.

"She’s sick," Hank replied. "She might have sustained a concussion."

"So what?"

"So we're not going to act like Erik. We need to finish this and get Charles back. But reducing ourselves to his level…we need some boundaries here. She's sick, so we let her go. She can communicate to Erik and bring him here. Maybe after what happened with Azazel, we'll be able to get through to him this time."

"What about this one?" Sean asked as he gestured to Raven.

Hank turned his head back to the blue-skinned woman. "You’re staying here.”

A shadow of defeat crossed Raven's face, but she nodded anyway.

Sean and Alex helped Angel towards their car; Sean agreed to drive her to the nearest hospital to get checked out and then wherever else she needed to go. The car zoomed out of the driveway. From the cabin’s front porch, Hank watched until Sean and Angel disappeared around the winding country road.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The doctors were not keen on Charles being discharged from the hospital; in fact, they flat-out told Moira it was asinine. Nonetheless, Charles insisted on it and even threatened to start calling cab companies if Moira wasn’t willing to help.

Maybe he couldn't stand hospitals anymore; maybe he desperately wanted to find Hank and the others. But Moira suspected he didn’t like all the attention the medical staff was giving him and his brain. He didn’t like being considered a miracle to everyone but himself.

So by late afternoon, Moira found herself driving her rental car up to the patient pick-up/drop-off zone at the building's entrance. Charles was already sitting in his wheelchair by the curb, waiting. He wore a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a matching, unzipped jacket with undershirt. The outfit drowned his skinny form like a child putting on his dad's wardrobe. Moira tried not to notice as she stepped out of the car.

"Can I help with anything?" she asked.

As Charles opened the passenger’s car door, he gave a nod towards his wheelchair. "Can you fold it up and put it in the back for me, please?"

Manually, he lugged both feet into the vehicle, and then using the car's hood, transferred himself into the passenger's seat. Moira did as he asked, and collapsed the chair. She tucked it into the backseat, half-dropping it with a _clank_ to the car's floor.

"Sorry," she whispered.

Charles didn't respond. 

Moira closed the car door. She circled around to her side, got in and then positioned her foot on the clutch. Pressing on the gas pedal, she shifted the car's gears and the car began to accelerate.

Away of the hospital's sunroof, the California sky was clear and sunny. Daylight still hung bright even in the late afternoon, and as Moira rolled down her window, the breeze captured her hair, twirling the strands around her as if they were alive.

To her right, Charles didn't budge. He didn't talk. His eyes were glued straight ahead, his face as empty as the sky above. Moira continued driving, shifting gears as she worked the foot pedals. She talked. It was all trivial things, she realized—in the hospital, she had already told Charles about Hank, Sean and Alex being somewhere close by, searching for him. There was nothing else she could think of except silly, random topics: _Isn't it amazing how different the west coast looks compared to the east coast? Did you know that even the diners out here serve burritos?_

Charles shifted his attention to the passenger window, gazing out.

Moira tapped her fingers across the steering wheel. Should she tell him that she had regained all her memories from Cuba? Should she mention that she'd read the CIA reports that explained what had really happened on the beach? Should she beg forgiveness for ruining his life because she'd been too dumb to realize Erik would deflect her bullets away?

As she shot a glimpse at the man beside her, she instantly knew the answer to all those questions. And it was no. Charles' hair was disheveled, his bangs matted to his forehead. The stubble across his jaw was almost a beard and his skin was whiter than the hospital's bed sheets. He no longer resembled the man she had met half a year ago. Back then, that one had draped an arm across her shoulders within a second of meeting her, and spoke with more confidence than one man should possess. At the time, it had annoyed her a little bit—this half-drunk guy assuming she wanted him just because she had stepped into his path. 

That man was gone and how badly she wanted to see him again. The one sitting beside her…he was like a house made of paper; with one tiny spark, someone could destroy him completely.

"Could you take East Ocean Boulevard, please?" Charles suddenly spoke. 

Surprised, Moira jumped her focus back to the road. She did as Charles instructed and eased the car to the right.

"So," Moira said as she merged with the afternoon traffic, "what's the plan here?"

As Charles continued to gaze out of the windshield, all he said was, "We need to find Hank and the others."

Then, he lifted his left hand. Planting his point and middle fingers to his temple, he closed his eyelids for a breath and then his pupils focused for the first time since leaving the hospital. 

Moira concentrated on the road, and throughout the rest of the afternoon, they drove around Long Beach searching for the others, neither of them saying hardly a word to one another as they went.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It was close to ten at night before Charles and Moira decided to give up for the evening. They returned to the Loma Vista Hotel, parked the car and then wandered to a small diner across the street. Charles nibbled at his dinner as if the hamburger and potato chips tasted like sawdust.

Moira asked him what he intended to do once he returned home, but he merely shook his head like the question was more complicated than she realized. She tried to brush off his disinterest and stuck to simple topics.

"We need to get you some more clothes," she said. "We'll stop by one of these Hollywood clothing outlets tomorrow morning."

He nodded.

"How about we go for a James Dean look?" she suggested. "Or Elvis. Would you like to look like Elvis for a few days?"

She was hoping he might smile at that, or at least give her a look like she was nuts. He did neither. With another bob of his head, he picked at the bread from his half-eaten hamburger and gnawed on it like he was chewing bark.

They returned to the hotel. They got ready for bed. The hospital had provided Charles with a few supplies to last him for about a week. He went into the bathroom and stayed in there for almost an hour. When he reemerged, his hair was damp from bathing; he didn't bother shaving his face. Moira lay in her bed and watched as Charles wheeled to the other one. He shook off his robe; underneath he wore the navy sweats and undershirt. 

He positioned his chair to the bed's edge, and grabbing his pants, moved his legs one at a time to the mattress. Then, he shifted his whole body over, grabbed a pillow and slid it between his knees. A second later, he drew the covers to his chest.

As he settled on the bed, Moira reached out a hand to the lamp. "Good night," she said.

"Good night," he replied automatically. His voice was raspy like he was sick.

Moira tugged on the lamp cord and then the room darkened. Only the dim glow of the outside streetlights provided any illumination as it bled through the cheap hotel curtains. Across from her, Moira could barely make out Charles' form. Head on his pillow, he breathed like it required forethought. 

Moira closed her eyes. She wasn't certain exactly when she fell asleep, but she woke with a startle several hours later. The soft breaths from the other bed had deepened. They were struggling now—strained. After a heartbeat, a slight groaning accompanied them.

Moira opened her eyes.

Covered down to his waist with the bed sheets, Charles gritted his teeth. His eyes were squinted shut. His right arm was wrapped behind him like he was trying to pull a knife from his back. Moira remembered that image. It was almost the same as the one from the beach as she watched helplessly while Charles’ lay on the sand, writhing in pain.

After he was shot.

"What's the matter?" Moira asked as she snapped up.

Charles opened his eyes. Pain contorted his features, but there was also a touch of embarrassment. He didn't mean to wake her. Nonetheless, the agony on his face only intensified and as Moira approached his side, he finally let out a gasp.

"My back," he struggled to say. With his left hand, he pointed to the nightstand between their beds. "Could you get…my pills for me, please?"

"Where does it hurt?"

"Just…" He sucked in a breath. "It's all right. Just get them, please."

With a frown, Moira stepped to the edge of his bed. Sliding the covers down a bit more, she got on her hands and knees, and crawled to Charles' side. He asked what she was doing, but as she rested her hands on his biceps, she said, "Here—try to roll over. Get the pressure off your back."

He let out a sigh like her insistence was bugging him, but as she held tightly to his arms, he finally complied. With her help, he rolled towards her. His right arm still grasped to his backside like that would do any good.

Leaning over, Moira lifted the back of his shirt. She brought her hands to his skin and gently applied pressure. He winced for a heartbeat, but as she rubbed the lower part of his back, the tension in his face gradually calmed. He opened his eyes, watching her as she caressed him. 

"Is that better?" she asked.

He nodded. Then, for the first time that day, the tiniest bit of serenity traced his features. "Thank you," he whispered. 

He shut his eyes.

Moira continued massaging him, feeling the warmth of him underneath her fingers. His skin was smooth—soft. There were only two exceptions and as Charles' breathing relaxed, Moira grazed her fingers on top of them.

In the arch of his back, a small scar blemished his skin. It was oval-shaped with smooth edges like someone had dotted him with a speck of paint. Above it, there was a line, just as smooth and subtle. At least six inches in length, it was parallel with his spine. A surgical scar. 

They appeared almost harmless, nothing more dramatic than a bad scratch.

How looks could be so deceiving.

Below her, Charles had fallen asleep. Her hands still resting on his back, Moira began rubbing his skin again. Just for a minute longer—just to make sure the pain was gone. She pressed them into his muscles; she glided her fingers, feeling the smooth, warm texture of him. Then, her hands inched upwards. They slid above his scars and across his shoulder blades. Charles didn't stir, but on his face, that trace of serenity now conquered his entire expression.

With that, Moira pulled one of her hands from underneath his shirt and brought it to his head. Gently, she brushed her fingers through his hair. In his sleep, he almost resembled the Charles she remembered. 

Almost.

**End of Chapter**

**Remember to check out the blog at[www.erinjensen.wordpress.com](http://www.erinjensen.wordpress.com). And of course, please leave a review on here before you go!**


	37. Chapter 37

It was only five in the morning and somehow the Long Beach Freeway still managed to be overrun by traffic. Getting Angel where she needed to go was taking more effort than Sean anticipated, and as he inched the Imperial forward by a whole two feet, he couldn't help but glance to his right. In the passenger's seat, Angel sat, her face more glum now than sick. Her arms were crossed to her chest like she was afraid Sean would change his mind and take her back to the cabin.

"We're almost there," he assured her. 

She didn’t bother replying. 

Sean drew his attention back to traffic. In the distance, he could see the ocean line of the Pacific; they'd get there faster if they hiked. Nonetheless, Sean kept to the road. Hank was right. They couldn't be like Erik. Sean wasn't certain what he and his mutant friends were, but he knew what they _weren't_. 

Sean had already driven Angel to the Mount Sinai Hospital near Beverly Hills, and had her checked out. She had suffered a minor concussion and the doctors had monitored her the rest of the day and night. It had been a tedious several hours.

Nonetheless, caring for the girl hadn’t relieved Sean’s nerves all that much. Yes, they were playing nice, but that was only temporary. By tomorrow, Sean might end up having to face Angel, and knock her into the side of a bus or something.

"I'm sorry about the duct tape," he muttered anyway. "We were just trying to help our friend. That’s all we want, you know."

The girl sighed like the apology was somehow bittersweet. "I'm sorry, too.”

"Really?"

She nodded. But as her gaze met Sean's, a dark feeling jabbed him in the stomach. Her eyes held the slightest touch of guilt, like she knew something he didn't.

Pain. It struck like a heartattack—powerful and completely out of his control. With a gasp, Sean wrenched his head back in his seat. His foot jerked on the gas pedal and the Imperial slammed into the Buick in front of them. 

He didn't care about that. What he did care about was the agony wracking throughout his head and where the hell it could be coming from. It could only be one thing.

The telepath, Emma Frost.

As soon as that thought grabbed his mind, a cloud of red filled the Imperial's backseat. Sean had only an instant to notice the amused look on Azazel's face before the other man snagged his hands to him and Angel, and then all three disappeared from the car.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Another day, and Charles and Moira travelled all over Long Beach. They drove along the coast, up to Rancho Palos Verdes and then back down to Huntington and Newport Beach. Then, they journeyed inland, up the Costa Messa Freeway, passing Santa Ana, Anaheim and Norwalk until they finally reached Los Angeles.

The entire way, Charles submerged himself within his telepathy. He concentrated on the road ahead as if he was trying to move the traffic with his mind.

All his effort proved futile, however. Hank and the others were out of Charles’ telepathic range or he was simply not catching their presence. Either way, by the time Moira and he found a hotel off of Olive Street in downtown LA, the determination in Charles’ eyes had vanished. 

After settling with the front desk, Moira got the room’s keys and parked. From the passenger seat, Charles started to haul his wheelchair from the back before Moira had a chance to loop around the car. The footplates were stuck and as Moira reached the side, Charles had already given up on it.

“I’ve got it,” Moira assured him.

Without protest, Charles rested his head against the door frame and waited for Moira. He didn’t argue with her; he didn’t try to help. As Moira tugged at the wheelchair, she tried to keep her attention ahead. Nonetheless, her eyes drifted to Charles.

They had purchased new clothes for him—some nice slacks, a buttoned shirt and vest. On his feet were a set of polished black dress shoes. Moira had insisted on getting him something besides sweats and undershirts. She was hoping the change might make him feel more like himself. But it was the nice attire that looked wrong on him somehow. 

Hands straining, Moira finally pried the chair free. Unfolding it, she rolled it next to Charles; he gave a faint, “thank you,” before transferring into the seat.

Moira entered the hotel room and instantly wrinkled her nose. The place reeked of cleaner like housekeeping was trying to cover up something. The walls were drab; the furniture looked like something trendy during the 40's.

It was also smaller than the one at Long Beach and that one was pitiful to start with. The beds were practically over-lapping each other, the space between them and the dresser as narrow as an indoor closet. Could Charles even get his wheelchair through? No wonder this was the only place they could find with an unlit "No Vacancy" sign.

Despite the concerns, Moira spun back to Charles with a smile. “I guess L.A. living is a little more ‘quaint’ than we were led to believe, huh?”

Grabbing the sides of the hotel’s door frame, Charles heaved himself through and into the room. He observed the place with mild disinterest before shutting the door.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Moira drew him a bath. Charles hadn’t asked her to do it; he didn’t really ask for anything. Her hair pinned back with an elastic band, Moira kneeled down and tested the water. Warm, but not too warm.

She twisted around. By the door, Charles sat. He was facing the sink outside of the room, his hands folded together in his lap. The doorway to the bathroom was too narrow for his chair; he’d need to climb out and drag himself inside. That fact neither upset nor angered him, it seemed, and strangely, Moira sort of hoped it would. Or something would—just to see some emotion cross his face.

His eyes were set to his feet, as blank as doll eyes. He sat exactly where Moira had put him and that’s exactly where he stayed—more like a piece of furniture she was towing around than a man.

Pushing that thought from her mind, Moira tipped her head at him. “I have an idea.”

Charles didn’t react.

“I say,” she continued regardless, “tomorrow morning, we forget about this whole ‘mutant hunt’ we’re on for a couple hours, stop by that breakfast diner we passed on Broadway, and just…eat our weight in pancakes.”

She waited for a response—nothing. He might as well have been on another planet.

Moira twiddled her fingers underneath the water again. “You know…you could always shave your face.”

He blinked as if it took effort.

“Unless you plan to go pillaging with Erik the Red sometime soon,” she added, “I’m not really sure the Viking look works for you.”

She meant it as a joke, or at least, a half-joke. Not even an upward twitch invaded his lips. It was like she wasn’t even there. With that, Moira removed her hand from the water. She stepped away from the tub and then knelt by Charles’ side.

“It’ll get better,” she said, curling both hands around his left armrest. “In the next couple days, we’ll find Hank and the others, and then we’ll get you back to that big house of yours where the doorways are a lot wider.”

Her words caught him; he lifted his head.

“You remember,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

She sighed at that. “It came back a few days ago. When you were hooked up to Cerebro.” A smirk teased her lips. “I should be pissed as hell, by the way. You could at least ask permission before erasing months from someone’s mind.”

The old Charles would have given her an uneasy smile, and made some quirky joke about how if he asked permission, she would have said no…or something like that. He would have apologized as well. 

This Charles merely nodded like that was the new answer to everything.

Moira reached out a hand; she rubbed his shoulder. She wanted to ask him why he sent her away—why he felt it was necessary to battle this on his own. Was he trying to protect everyone—her and the mutants alike—from the CIA? Or was he trying to prove that he could handle everything without help? Perhaps, deep down, did he think Moira would leave on her own?

If he heard all her rambling thoughts, he didn’t show it. The questions continued rattling on in Moira’s mind, too many and too profound for her to address at once. She was right; she should have been pissed off—she should have even felt betrayed—but she didn’t. Staring up the remnants of the man she once knew, all she could feel was sorrow.

Trying to hold herself together, she told him gently, “This isn't your life, Charles. This is a bad moment in a bad hotel. You'll see. When we leave this place, you can start putting this behind you. You can begin work on your school again.”

It was subtle, but there was a trace of recognition on Charles’ face like hearing an old friend’s name. But it faded swiftly.

“Can you tell me about it?" Moira asked. "The school. How is all that coming along?”

“It’s not,” he said, and although his voice was soft, it still managed to sound dark.

Moira paused. “I don’t understand. The last time we talked, you had all these plans…you were hoping to have students by the end of this year—“

“I can’t help them. I can’t help anyone.”

On Charles’ arm, Moira’s hand tightened. “What do you mean?” 

Charles’ gaze finally met hers. Except, this time, the disinterest had fled away; in its place was an expression Moira had never seen on him before. It was a jumble of emotions, really, contorting his features like he was being suffocated by them. Sadness. Helplessness. Fear. The fear in his eyes alone made Moira’s stomach ache. But the worst of it was the resigned look underneath it all. It was as if he had tried to fight it all back—whatever he was going through—and he had failed.

“Look at me, Moira,” he whispered. “Do I seem like a person who could possibly nurture and guide a new race of people?”

“It’ll get better,” Moira repeated, but now the words lacked their previous conviction. “You just need to give it more time. Just a little more, okay?”

He was already shaking his head. “It can’t get better. It can’t get better because I…I can never _be_ better. This,” he opened his hands to himself, “this is it for me.”

“That’s not true.”

“I can barely care for myself. Everyday, the endless schedules—the routines and stretches and medications—just to live. Just to…to function and I…” He broke off and closed his eyes for a breath. “This isn’t living. This is hardly existing.” 

Swallowing hard, he peered up at the ceiling as if his own words were too painful for himself. When he brought his eyes back, however, a strange sense of certainty distorted them. “I can't help them, Moira. I can’t even help myself.”

The words seeped into her, and as they did, Moira dug her fingers into the armrest. Suddenly, she was very certain of something, too. “You’re not thinking straight right now.”

“This is the first time I’ve thought straight since all this began.”

“No,” Moira spoke more powerfully. “Charles, I can’t begin to grasp what you’ve been through. With what happened at Cuba and now all of this…” She inhaled, trying to cool the anger abruptly stewing in her gut. “Erik had no right to do what he did, Charles—forcing you to use that machine. I can’t imagine how horrible it had to have been to be put onto something like that against your will.”

Charles’ eyes dropped down again as if thinking back. From behind them, Moira realized the bath water was still running; she tossed a glance over her shoulder. Almost full—

“I’m not upset because it felt bad,” Charles said. “I’m upset…because it felt _good_.”

Slowly, Moira brought her eyes back around.

“It felt so good,” Charles continued as if she weren’t there. “I was a part of everything. Of every single mind on this planet, and this, ” he gripped his legs, “it didn’t matter anymore. None of it mattered anymore. And for a brief instant…” he finally looked at her and in his eyes, there was a glint of hope, “ _I was free_.”

Moira’s heart sank; tears welled up in her eyes. For the last two days, she had wanted nothing more than to see something wishful on Charles’ face. And there it was, but for all the wrong reasons.

Moira slid her right hand from Charles’ arm up to his face. “You were dying, Charles. Do you understand that?”

The glint in Charles’ eyes dimmed. He glanced at her up and down as if trying to find the reasons she was saying this to him.

“Tell me you understand that,” Moira went on.

On his face, a frown emerged.

The words came up like acid to her throat but Moira couldn’t stop them. She couldn’t—because they were true. “Do you even care?”

Charles studied her. Curiosity enveloped his features like he couldn’t comprehend what she was saying—like she was the one out of place with reality and he was centered. From behind them, the sound of water splashing the floor invaded Moira’s ears. She held out a second longer, hoping Charles would suddenly see reason. It didn’t happen. Swallowing hard, Moira rushed away from the man, and dropped to her knees beside the tub. Scrambling to shut off the water, she grabbed the levers with one hand and the tub’s plug with the other.

In unison, the water stopped flowing and began draining. Her legs and arms soaked, Moira sat by the tub’s rim, her hands still submerged. The water should have warmed them both but somehow they still felt like ice. Behind her, Charles sat. He didn’t mutter another word.

**End of Chapter**

**I had some readers ask about the cover art for this fan fiction, so I have added an entry on my blog at[www.erinjensen.wordpress.com](http://www.erinjensen.wordpress.com). It shows how I drew James' face on Photoshop, using an original picture with his face a little stubbly and wearing a shiny blue shirt. Feel free to take a look. Until next time! **


	38. Chapter 38

The workers at Castlebrook had been busy cleaning up the mess Erik and the other mutants had made during their conflict nights before. The scrap metal had been dragged to the neighboring dumpsters; wall panels had been bolted back into place across the warehouse’s structure. But the place stood empty now—closed down for the night—no one was there to notice Erik as he roamed the parking lot.

He wasn’t that noticeable, in all truth. All of his attire remained back on the yacht; his helmet laid on the base’s floor with Riptide’s corpse. He wore the same simple clothing he had on when he was teleported off the _Cassandra_ —the same when he sat in the hospital waiting to see if Charles would live or die.

His friend had survived.

As for Magneto…Erik wasn’t so sure. 

His brotherhood of mutants was scattered across the California coast; Azazel would try to kill him for what happened to Riptide, Erik was certain. Erik had spared his life in hopes of piecing together the brotherhood, but it might have been too late. Emma would most likely follow the teleporter, and Angel…who knew which side she’d choose. Mystique was the only one he was certain would remain with him, and she was currently in the hands of Hank and the others who were also against him but for completely different reasons.

How did things become so backwards?

Despite all the rambling thoughts, Erik kept his focus to the ground. His eyes scanned the pavement. He searched. Erik knew Hank and the others would never kill Mystique and Angel; he also knew he needed to get them back. Mystique might not betray him for Azazel, but for Charles? She was already guilt-ridden; given enough pressure, she could cave and divulge the location of the island base and the _Cassandra._

And the last thing Erik wanted was for her and the others to wind up out there with an angered Azazel and Emma. Mystique could end up in a cross-fire. 

So Erik continued his search. He didn’t really know what he was searching for; that’s how ‘clues’ worked, he supposed. All he had to go on was knowing Hank, Alex and Sean had taken the girls somewhere outside the city. Emma had pictured winding roads—a cabin.

Across the pebbles of busted pavement and debris of metal, there was a tinge of green. Erik crouched down. Between his fingers, he pinched the single blade of grass and lifted it to his face. It was dark, much darker than the lime green he’d spotted around Los Angeles.

Straightening up, Erik curled his fingers around the blade and then turned away from the warehouse.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

It was close to three o’clock in the morning, and across from Moira on the other bed, Charles slept. His thick chestnut hair was wavy from bathing—his face clear of scruff. Moira didn’t think he had been listening to her, but as she peered as his shaven skin, she realized it only made it worse. The baby fat was gone, emphasizing his sunken cheeks.

A lump swelled in Moira’s throat. She tried to swallow it—tried bringing in some soothing breaths—and in her head, she repeated the same words she had spoken to Charles just hours before. It would get better. It’d just take time. Just a little more time.

Nonetheless, the more she repeated them, the less meaning the words possessed. The knot in her throat tightened; her eyes began burning.

She had to take a breather.

Moira slid the covers off her legs. Her pajama shirt almost went to her knees, but it had slid up from hours of tossing and turning. Goosebumps textured her legs. Eyeing Charles, she got out of bed, grabbed the white hotel robe on the chair by the sink, and wrapped herself. The fabric was stiff and overpowered by the smell of detergent. She slipped on her sneakers and pocketed her car keys.

Then, she left the hotel room, hustling to the car. Outside, a mild drizzle misted water across the parking lot; the vapors felt good on her face, cooling the skin as if Moira was suffering a fever.

Shoving the car key into the rented LeSabre, Moira dropped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut. Across the windshield, the tiny rain droplets distorted the picture of the outside, making it appear as if the world was melting. Moira clenched her hands to the steering wheel, and then everything within her fell apart.

She cried. 

The tears streamed like blood from a wound, and she no longer had control. 

God, what had she done? What had she been thinking? She had wanted to play hero on that beach—to stop a force far beyond her comprehension. And her arrogance had cost Charles a part of himself. He’d never walk again. He’d never feel again. She saw it in his eyes that night in the bathroom, as everything she had grown to adore about him was shutting down.

And there she was again, trying to play the hero, trying to stop something far from her control. She couldn’t save Charles. He didn’t care whether he lived or died now, and she could do nothing to help him.

Squinting her eyes shut, Moira allowed the tears to flow. They slid down her face, hot like lava on her already burning skin. She had always promised herself she could endure anything and remain as strong as steel. She was a stupid girl.

_Just a stupid, stupid girl_.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

From inside the hotel room, the lights were shut off. The only sound came from the soft raindrops sprinkling across the room’s windows.

As Charles Xavier lay in bed, his eyes opened. Through the serenity of the night, he could hear her—her thoughts. Her sobs. They were as soft as the rain drizzling on the glass, but they still managed to stab into him with each tear that fell.

_What have I done?_ her thoughts whispered. _What have I done?_

Charles listened to her, feeling her. Every emotion that radiated from her very core, and as all of it flooded Charles’ mind, he knew what he had to do.

It was close to four in the morning before Moira dragged herself back into the hotel room. She tried to be quiet, but even with his left ear pressed against his pillow, Charles still heard her. 

In the dark, he watched as she peeled the wet robe from her body, revealing a baggy pajama top that exposed her thighs. Lazily, she dropped the robe to the edge of her bed and then climbed under her covers like the task required ten times more effort than normal.

Finally, her eyes glanced his direction; she flinched when she found him staring back.

“Go to sleep, Moira,” he whispered.

The telepathic command was simple, and with it, the woman’s head dropped to her pillow like her body couldn’t take the weight anymore. For the first time since she found him in the hospital, Moira’s face looked peaceful. The redness was already cooling.

With that, Charles sat up. He flipped on the nightstand’s lamp and lugged the telephone beside it to his lap.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

They didn’t bother tying him down—what would be the purpose? On the _Cassandra_ in the middle of the Pacific, Sean Cassidy wasn’t going anywhere. It was still dark in the early morning hours. The clouds shaded the moon; the ocean appeared as black as tar. On his knees by the white patio furniture, Cassidy cradled his hands to his stomach. Sweat drenched his thick auburn hair.

Azazel had already ripped the “wings” off the boy’s suit. He’d already roughed Cassidy up a couple times already. Now, the teleporter towered over him, watching as Emma had her turn. The telepath could have been gentle, probing his mind with the delicate touch of a mother caressing an infant. But it had been hours, and Emma wasn’t exactly a subtle person to begin with.

Neither was Azazel. 

They had spent all that time trying to figure out exactly where Hank and the other mutants had taken Mystique. Azazel had teleported to the mainland on more than one occasion with Angel. She was able to give them some idea; they knew it was outside Los Angeles. But the stupid girl hadn’t paid enough attention, and couldn’t pinpoint where they needed to hunt.

And Cassidy was stubborn. He had already insisted on speaking with Erik—had practically demanded it, in fact. Azazel made it clear hours before that Magneto was no longer a factor in all this. Cassidy had to deal with Azazel and Emma now, and neither one were in the mood to negotiate.

Maybe all the drama wasn’t just about locating the other mutants. 

Maybe Azazel just wanted to break something.

With that, the teleporter swung his tail; it snaked around the boy’s neck as perfectly as a noose. Shutting his eyes, Cassidy wrenched his hands to his throat. He clutched his fingers around the tail, trying to pry it away. A useless gesture.

As Emma brought her attention to Azazel, the focus in her eyes cooled. She took a step back to allow the teleporter to do his work. From behind them, Angel surveyed the whole scene, a frown etched to her features.

“Azazel—” she started, but it was too late.

Yanking his tail upwards, Azazel forced Cassidy to stand. The boy was tall, but his baby face made him appear as pitiful as a drowning puppy. Azazel frowned. “Where is Mystique?”

Cassidy shook his head.

Azazel gripped tighter. “I want her back, comrade. She’s to be with us—not you.”

Azazel meant it. Mystique deserved to stay with the other mutants—with him. Her capture sent a wave of anger through Azazel that was only matched by his fury towards Erik.

Cassidy opened his mouth as if wanting to speak. Just by millimeters, Azazel eased back on the boy’s throat.

“Charles,” was all the boy spoke.

“He’s dead,” Azazel replied. “You should no longer worry yourself with him.”

It was close enough to the truth; the telepath was as good as a vegetable now. The pain masking Cassidy’s face was suddenly overshadowed by grief. He shook his head like Azazel was lying to him.

With that, Emma reached out a hand; she clamped it to Cassidy’s jaw and forced him to face her. “You aren’t in the position to demand anything, sweetie. So, for your sake, I’d suggest you give us better responses.”

Then, she jerked his face away. The same instant, Azazel unraveled his tail from the boy’s neck and the youth collapsed like his legs were as broken as his dead friend’s.

“Your telepath is gone,” Azazel continued. “You should concern yourself with more important things now.”

“Like breathing,” Emma added.

On the floor, the boy panted. His shaggy hair clung to his face; his arms quivered. 

From behind them, Angel came to Emma’s side. “That’s enough, okay?” she said. “Just…probe his mind and figure it out. Can’t you do that?”

“This is more entertaining,” Emma came back.

Watching them, Azazel had to grin. He glanced back down.

Cassidy’s eyes met his—in them, a glimmer of intensity. He drew in a breath.

It happened so fast, Azazel didn’t have a chance to teleport away. The other mutant opened his mouth. A scream erupted. It was like being hit by a roaring locomotive; within seconds, Azazel found himself airborne. He toppled off the side of the yacht. Before his body smacked the water, however, Azazel flashed back to the foredeck.

It had taken only a second, in reality. Somehow, within that second, Cassidy had already blasted Emma, knocking the woman into the white patio table near the end of the deck. Angel tried to grab the boy’s arm, but he shoved her away before darting off.

Back on the yacht, Azazel observed with mild curiosity as the other mutant disappeared into the lower decks. What, exactly, did he think would come of this? 

From a few feet away, Emma sat up with a groan. She glared at Azazel like this mess was his doing.

“Stay here,” he told her and Angel, and then walked down the steps to the lower levels.

Below deck, Cassidy was noisy. He was hopping from room-to-room as if his salvation was underneath one of the beds. In the hallway, Azazel stood and listened. He snorted a breath and then continued towards the quarters.

In Azazel’s room, the boy had finally stopped. Azazel entered, and stood by the doorway as he saw Cassidy spin around to him. In front of his bed, the boy curled his arms to himself as if that would protect him.

“Are you finished?” Azazel asked.

The boy didn’t answer, but the fear in his eyes said it all. With that, Azazel took a step forward and gripped the boy’s neck. Then, the two disappeared, back up to the main deck to finish what had been started.

After all, Emma had had her fun. It was Azazel's turn now. He didn't intend to waste it.

**End of Chapter**

**New blog, "In Memory of an Artist," an entry dedicated for Noux, a beautiful artist who did gorgeous pieces of James McAvoy fan art, which I've added to my pic gallery. To see the blog, visit[www.erinjensen.wordpress.com](http://www.erinjensen.wordpress.com). Until next time!**


	39. Chapter 39

Charles watched her. On the other bed, Moira rested with a hand under her pillow, her damp hair spilled across her face and neck. She snored a little—a tiny hum that escaped every few minutes. He let her stay that way for a couple hours, granting her a chance to regain some of the sleep she'd lost during the last few days. But a part of it was for him. After that morning, he'd probably never see Moira again.

It was close to six by the time Charles decided he needed to finish this. He'd considered just erasing the woman's mind like he had before, making certain this time those memories stayed lost. But she didn't want that. She'd rather confront all the calamity before her and learn to deal with it than live in blissful ignorance. 

Fixing his fingers to his temple, Charles gave the silent command and with it, Moira roused. Stretching her arms, she squinted her face before those deep brown eyes finally opened. As they found him, all the grogginess cleared away.

"Charles?" she said as she saw him sitting in bed, the nightstand's lamp giving off a mild amber glow.

A million thoughts stormed his mind, all scattered about and making it near impossible to see straight. His heart was racing. Nonetheless, he faced her, making sure to keep his visage as impassive as a brick wall.

"I've made some calls," he said, "and secured flights this afternoon for the both of us. One to New York…and one back to Washington."

Moira sat up. "What are you talking about?"

"This is what we're going to do," he continued. "We'll get up, get something to eat and then spend the morning driving around as we've been doing. We will continue searching for Hank, Alex and Sean, but if we don't find them by noon, then that's the end of it. We head to the airport."

"What about Erik?"

"This isn't working," Charles went on. "We can't continue aimlessly wandering across California in hopes I might happen upon Hank and the others. At some point, they will either call or come home, and I can be there, waiting for them."

"And…me?" 

Charles tried to hold that deadpan face, but as Moira waited nervously for his response, he caved. "I'm sorry," he told her. "For all of this. You never should have gotten involved."

She grimaced like he'd just insulted her.

"Go back home, Moira,” he continued anyway. “Go back to Washington—back to the CIA—and just…forget about us. It'll be best for all involved."

"Yeah, well—that might be a little difficult, Charles."

"I'm sure you'll manage."

"I quit the CIA."

All the words in Charles' throat dissolved away. He furrowed his brow.

Clearly spotting the confusion on his face, Moira shrugged. "It happened a few weeks ago. I read Stryker's report from Cuba…and quit the next day."

Blinking like he had something in his eyes, Charles replied, "But—but why?"

"Oh, I don't know—because they tried to kill us?"

A pang of frustration burrowed its way into Charles' gut. Suddenly, all the certainty he’d been clinging to for the last two hours just got shoved into the dirt. 

"I—I didn't want you to do that,” he said. “It's one of the main reasons I erased your memories in the first place."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't just fling those powers of yours around like a magic wand. Not everything can be erased away, Charles."

There was so much truth in that statement, it made Charles cringe. This was worse than he first realized. Not only was his life an utter disaster, but he'd managed to string Moira along for the ride.

"I couldn't stay there," Moira explained, softer now. "You think it's easy knowing that someone tried to kill you out of fear of what you can do? Imagine knowing that someone tried to kill you because you meant nothing to them. Because it was convenient. I don't think that's much better."

Moira slid her feet from underneath the covers. Her legs dangled from the edge of her bed, the skin glistening from the lamp light like satin. She stared at him. The image greatly contradicted the one he'd seen just hours before as the woman had returned from the car with tears still drying on her cheeks.

With that, Charles closed his eyes. "I heard you.”

"What do you mean?"

"In the car." He brought his gaze back to her. "I _heard_ you."

Finally catching on, Moira groaned. "You weren't supposed to…that's the whole reason I went out there! So you wouldn't hear me."

"Well, I'm a telepath, love—it's a little hard to avoid."

Moira rubbed her eyes as if Charles was bringing on a headache. 

"I'm sorry, but I'm not used to all this," Charles explained. "I'm not used to being dependent on others for mundane tasks. I'm not used to feeling so utterly helpless it makes me sick…and I'm _certainly_ not used to causing women to burst into tears."

"It's not like that," Moira replied. "You're over-analyzing this whole thing."

"I know what I look like," Charles said, the words stinging his own ears. "I know what I am now. Whatever you came out here for…it's not here, Moira. _He's_ not here—not anymore."

Slowly, Moira dropped her hands. She studied his face, and as she did, the irritation in hers morphed to concern—pity. Just like all the others in his life now. He couldn’t defend himself against it anymore.

"I appreciate everything you've done for me," Charles said. "Coming out here, trying to…to rescue me, as it were—"

"Charles—"

"But I'm not your obligation, Moira. I'm not your burden to be had."

She frowned, his words finally making an impact.

"I've never blamed you for what happened," Charles continued. "If you ever thought that, then I am sorry. But this—none of this—was your fault. You were only doing what you were supposed to do that day, trying to stop Erik—trying to stop a real threat. And things… " he trailed off, and inside, his heart ached, "…things simply went wrong."

Moira forced herself up. She came to his bedside and sat, her eyes never leaving his. "Do you think that's why I'm here?"

"I know you feel responsible. So I would like to relinquish you of that guilt. You were only doing what you were supposed to do. The humans—they were only doing what they thought they needed to do. And Erik…" The words were like thorns in Charles’ throat but as they rolled up, he knew they were the truth. "Erik was only doing what was in his nature to do. What I knew was in his nature, and I simply…ignored it. I ignored all of it."

As the gravity his own declaration struck him, Charles lay back. He covered his right hand over his face, shutting his eyes as if that alone would shield him from reality. Above him, he knew Moira was peering down, trying to understand what he was saying—what he meant.

"He tried to warn me," Charles continued. "Since the moment I met him, Erik kept telling me exactly what the humans would do once we were no longer of use to them. What he would do to Shaw—he made no denials on the matter. But I didn't want to listen—God, I just didn't listen to him. All the warnings—all the discussions we had, and I sat there and heard all of it, and refused to believe a word." His eyes began to blur.

"Charles," Moira whispered. Gently, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist and eased his hand away. "That's not what happened—"

"No, it's exactly what happened," he exclaimed. "I was the one who lead us out there; I convinced everyone to risk their lives. And despite all the warnings—everything he told me—I still believed it would all turn out right. Erik wouldn't kill Shaw; the humans would accept us after everything was said and done. And it's because of that—that I'm…"

He shut his mouth. His upper body felt as numb as his legs and he balled his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms just to feel something. Moira placed her hands to his face. She gazed at him as if everything he said was so far from the truth, she couldn't even understand him anymore. But it was the truth, and he knew it.

"Don't you see?" Charles finally told her. _“I did this to myself.”_

Moira's eyes widened.

"I might as well have shot myself in the back," he kept on.

"No, Charles—"

"It's true. For all the times I've blamed Erik these past months and everything that happened on the beach, the reality is that I put myself in that position. I never listened and he tried to warn me a thousand times over, and still I refused to hear any of it. I did this—it was me. All of it."

It felt like it he was choking back poison. His face heated; his body shook. He could barely see the woman above him, her beautiful features lost within his tear-ridden eyes.

But then, something happened he didn't expect. The soft hands on his face gripped down. Not painful—just firm—and as Charles focused on Moira, her face wasn't as soft as he expected. In fact, it was as hard as rock.

"You listen to me," she said. "You _listen_."

Charles' lips parted, but only air escaped his lips.

"You're never going to blame yourself for this again," she told him. "Never again, Charles."

He tried to shake his head, but Moira's hands wouldn't let him. Nonetheless, through her hardened stare, a loving glint shimmered in her gaze. She wanted him to hear her—desperately wanted him to.

At that, Charles closed his mouth. 

Moira leaned over to him, her face inches from his, her eyes peering into his with a compassion and strength he'd never seen in them before.

"Do you have any idea— _any idea_ —what you did that day?" she asked.

Charles gaped at the woman.

"You stopped a war, Charles,” she continued. “You saved thousands—if not millions of lives…some of them single-handedly, on those ships."

"From other mutants," he reminded her. “From others—"

"That's not your fault. You had nothing to do with that. For God's sake, you were trying to help us."

Charles tried to conjure up something else to say, but then Moira's fingers began caressing his face. Warm strokes, gliding across his skin; with it, any words he might have considered were lost. Moira lowered her head to his. Her nose touched his nose; her breaths mixed with his own. 

"You did everything right that day, Charles," she declared. "It's the rest of the world that screwed up."

She repeated the words, this time as a whisper, and then again. She meant them. She meant all of them. Charles didn't know if he could find it in himself to agree—if he ever could—but just to hear her say them allowed the emptiness that had been devouring him to weaken. In its place, there was a hint of warmth, as gentle as her breaths across his cheeks and just as profound.

He gazed up at her. With the lamp light giving off the slightest glow, it was like viewing her in candlelight. Those stunning, chocolate eyes; they were beautiful. He'd always thought they were beautiful, but now, there was something more. The intensity of them—the compassion and strength and so many things he'd never really paid much mind to before.

Her face blazed of it. Her skin—her body. All of her.

And for the first time since his accident, he realized he wanted something. Not for someone else—not to prove anything to himself. Just to have. 

Closing his eyes, Charles lifted his head. He placed his lips to Moira's. It was a gentle kiss—a taste. Her lips were moist; there was a hint of honey from her gloss. Their mouths held still for a moment, their lips barely touching.

Then, Moira kissed him back. Her lips parted, and he kissed her more deeply. From his sides, his clenched hands loosened and then lifted to her face. He held her tightly to him, each movement of his mouth to hers causing the warmth inside to envelop him further.

Removing her legs from the side of the bed, Moira slid on top of him. Her legs straddled his sides, her pajama shirt rising to her hips. Charles dropped his hands. His fingers grazed her thighs, up to her waist, and with each inch of skin, he pressed harder. 

His lips pressed harder. His heart pounded in his chest.

Moira slipped her hands from his face to his neck. Her fingers slipped through the ends of his hair. At his waist, her hips pushed into him just slightly. Charles' hands grasped harder to her, feeling her weight on him—her warmth blending with his.

Moira's fingers glided down his neck, to his chest and then his sides. Her right hand slid just below his injury—

—and vanished from his senses.

With a gasp, Charles grabbed her hand. It was there—at his hip, her fingers touching his skin. He froze in place. Above him, Moira did the same. Their lips parted.

Her hand remained on his body. But there was no sensation underneath, like her touch had reached a void that was no longer a part of him.

As that reality struck, the warmth inside Charles cooled. Moira glanced at her hand and then him. Understanding contorted her features and she gave a look as if she'd done something wrong.

"I'm—I'm sorry—" she started but Charles immediately shook his head.

"It's not you," he whispered. "It's not you."

He caressed her fingers, lacing his between them, and then brought her hand to rest on his shoulder. Above him, Moira remained motionless, clearly unsure what to do. The truth was, Charles didn't know, either. His body was new to him; he no longer knew what it was capable of. He was as clueless as a newborn. 

The passion throughout him subsided. The emptiness that had gripped him so tightly returned like a monster being released from a cage. But underneath it, he still felt that vestige of warmth. Just a touch, and it comforted him.

With that, Charles rested his hands back to Moira's face. He knew what he wanted. Before his injury, he never would have bothered asking for something so simple, but in that instant—staring up at her—it was all he desired.

"Would you just…lie here with me?" he whispered.

It sounded so absurd, he almost worried the woman might refuse him. Instead, she smiled, those stunning eyes glowing again. She lifted the covers away from his hips. She scooted down until her legs intertwined with his, and then dropped the covers on them both. Her head rested on his shoulder, her breathing as calm as it had been when she was sleeping just a short while before. 

Her arms wrapped around him. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling her heart beat against his chest. Then, Charles closed his eyes, feeling Moira's breaths on his neck, her heart beating softly as she lay within his embrace.

**End of Chapter**

**Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Not even Thursday yet, and I've already gained three pounds—stinkin' office potlucks.**


	40. Chapter 40

The cabin looked condemned. The windows were blotched with dirt; mold overwhelmed the outside wood. Inside his stolen Buick, Erik still managed to grin a little. In the driveway, a white Continental sat, its luxury a sweeping contrast to the rotting structure beside it.

Stopping short of the cabin by at least two hundred feet, Erik cooled the Buick's ignition and hopped out. Surrounding him, the forest's dark green matched the blade of grass in his pocket like a color swatch. It was an exotic plant life, brought to the north of Beverly Hills to add richer color to the otherwise sparse landscape. Easy to find as well.

Across the sky, the sun was waking, the royal blue still grasping for survival against the approaching light. In the forest's shade, Erik possessed the upper hand. The cabin was dark; most likely, Hank and the other mutants were still sleeping. Even if they weren't, Erik could probably make it almost to the front porch before they'd notice him in the dull morning's glow—

He felt it more than heard it. The tiny bit of metal slinking in behind him, trying to find the right angle.

_Perhaps 'sneaking' was a bit too optimistic._

Spinning around, Erik stretched out his arm. The same instance, Alex soared back into a neighboring tree. In Erik’s invisible grasp, the other man’s chest plate was held tight.

A red blast raged forward anyway. With a groan, Erik hit the gravel as the energy beam fired overhead. His eyes never left Alex, however—his hand stretched out to the other man as if connected by a string.

Then, Erik balled his hand into a fist. At that, Alex shouted, flipping into the air. With the metal on the chest plate alone, Erik shot him at least thirty feet up. The boy cursed as he found himself completely within Erik's control. He lingered there for a second, and then Erik opened his hand.

"No!" Mystique's voice broke through just as Alex started plummeting downwards.

Ten feet from the forest's floor, the boy slowed. Within Erik's grasp, Alex eased to the ground and then found himself on his hands and knees. Gasping, he stayed there as if all his energy had been drained.

"Erik!" Mystique's voice carried through the forest. 

Forcing himself upright, Erik turned just as the girl hopped down the steps of the cabin's front porch. A smile beamed on her face, her teeth a bright white against her dark blue skin. As she reached him, Mystique's arms ribboned around Erik's back, holding tight as if he might run away.

"Are you all right?" he asked as he embraced her.

"Yeah, I'm okay," she replied. "A little sick of Twinkies, but…"

From the front porch, Hank McCoy stood, his beastly form quite menacing against the shaded forest. Drawing in a breath, Erik slid his arms from the girl and stepped forward. Hank didn't budge; he was waiting for Erik to make the next play. 

Behind him, Erik felt as Alex regained his composure. The boy stood several feet away, teetering on that edge between not interfering and still maintaining an attack position. Although he couldn't see him, Erik assumed Sean was doing the same—clever boys. To Erik's right, Mystique took his hand as he walked to the bottom of the cabin's stairs.

"Where are they?" Hank asked.

Instantly, Erik arched an eyebrow. "They?" 

"Charles and Sean," Hank replied. "What have you done with them?"

Erik and Mystique exchanged glances. The girl gave him a look as if he should know the answer.

"We gave Angel back," Alex shouted from behind them, "so where's Sean?"

As the reality of the last few days started to sink in, Erik shook his head. Azazel. He must have found Angel and Sean—that poor boy. No doubt, he was having a very unpleasant morning.

"What's your answer, Erik?" Hank asked him.

"Charles is safe," Erik finally replied. "He's with Moira, and they're most likely searching for all of you as we speak."

"Moira?"

"I found her planted on a bench by the marina. I left Charles in her very open arms."

Hank snorted like he didn’t believe him.

"I don't know about your banshee-friend," Erik continued regardless. "Azazel and I had a little disagreement."

"You were trying to kill each other last I recall."

"Hence the disagreement."

From beside him, Mystique's hand squeezed down. She faced Erik, her eyes scanning him as if determining whether or not he was attempting a very bad joke.

"You two were really trying to kill each other?" she asked. 

Erik closed his eyes for a heartbeat. "Our brotherhood is not doing so well, my dear. Riptide is dead—and Azazel, Emma, and, most likely, Angel are now banded together against me. They must have Sean."

On the front porch, Hank stepped down the stairs. The frustration that had been plagued his features gave way to concern. From behind Erik, Alex tottered forward, his chest plate retaining a lackluster gray.

"How did this happen?" Mystique asked as if for everyone.

Erik opened his mouth, ready to explain the situation in detail, when a noise interrupted him. It was subtle, like the sound of a breeze almost, but after all those months, Erik recognized it immediately. With a frown, he rotated around, peering back at the cabin's driveway.

By the Continental, the four figures stood, almost as black as the shadows in the forest surrounding them. Three glared at Erik and the others the instant their gazes collided together. The only exception was the fourth—the lanky Sean Cassidy. Arms crossed around his stomach, the boy was gasping, his legs seeming ready to fold at any moment. With his left hand, Azazel held tight to the boy's right sleeve, and it appeared that might have been the only thing holding Sean upright.

"Hello, comrades," Azazel spoke, and then with a shove, released the boy.

Sean staggered to the ground, his back slamming into the gravel driveway. Curled into himself, he stayed there.

"We have much to discuss," Azazel continued.

His eyes focused on Erik, as sharp as the teleporter’s pointed tail. Across the forest, the sun's rays were finally weaving through the leaves. The light offered no comfort, however, as the two groups of mutants stood across from each another, their expressions almost resigned to the impending fact that this would not end well.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Daybreak. Only an hour or so had passed, but as Charles opened his eyes, it felt like days. Somewhere in slumber he had shifted slightly to his side, his head falling beside Moira’s collarbone. Her hair had spilled acrosss his face and neck, and smelled like lavender. Her right arm still laid around his back, but it was loose now. Her breathing whistled a little, its warmth brushing across Charles’ right cheek.

For the first time in a long time, no thoughts trampled his mind. He didn’t concern himself with them—reflections on what had happened or what would. For that moment, he was merely lying in bed, a beautiful woman cradled in his arms. Nothing else mattered.

He pulled her closer. He felt the heat of her, her body shrowded only by her thin cotton shirt that left little to the imagination. Her chest lifted and fell against his. The covers had slipped below their waists, and her left leg had found its way around him. He couldn’t feel it, but he could see it. That perfect, slender thigh and calf draped over him, intertwining his body to hers.

His right hand traced her outer thigh, then slid to the back of her pajama shirt. The fabric shifted with his fingertips. At that, Moira stirred, her eyes twitching as if from a pleasant dream. The whistling morphed into a groan. Her leg tightened around him.

“Are you still asleep?” Charles whispered as if he didn’t already know.

Eyes still shut, a little smirk played on Moira’s lips. “If I said ‘yes,’ would you believe me?”

He smiled, and suddenly realized he couldn’t recall the last time he’d done that.

Moira opened her eyes and smiled back. “Hi, there.”

“Hi,” he said almost sheepishly, laying his head against his pillow.

Around her back, Charles’ hand continued to caress Moira’s skin. He pressed just a little harder—just a touch deeper. She nestled herself to him. Her right arm lifted to his head; she stroked his hair.

“So,” she said, “what do we do now?”

She clearly didn’t mean at that moment. She was talking about after the hotel. After that day, when life had to catch up to them again. 

With that, Charles shrugged one shoulder. “I have no idea.”

Moira’s grin only grew. “We’re just about the most clueless people in the world right now, aren’t we?” 

“I’m certain someone’s faring worse.”

“Poor bastard.”

“No doubt.”

He kissed her. It was tender, more tender than he’d remember being in his previous days of bar-and-bed hopping. Those nights—those girls—had been for fun. Silly, stupid college kids romping around with each other, switching lovers the same way boys traded baseball cards. 

He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t miss it. Or, better put, he missed the innocence of it—the simplicity. Knowing that now, just like everything else in his life, making love would never be the same. His new body would limit him. Sex wouldn’t be as simple as a few connecting gazes, a couple drinks and a walk back to his place. A part of him felt sad at that thought, even as he kissed this lovely woman beside him. Moira meant more to him than any of the other girls he’d been with, and he’d never be able to express it the way he wanted.

Nonetheless, he didn’t back away from her. As he lay there, his lips touching hers, there was more warmth in his heart than ache. Maybe that was worth something. Maybe everything.

Minutes glided by and when their lips finally parted, Charles rested his head between Moira’s shoulder and neck. He took in her lavender smell. His hand slid underneath her shirt and he continued rubbing her back. He knew she wanted more; her emotions were so strong, it was almost impossible _not_ to sense. Nonetheless, she was content. And he could tell, it had been awhile since she’d felt that way, too. 

He wasn’t the only one who lost something on that beach.

“I’m so sorry, Moira,” he finally told her. “For what happened with the CIA—I know what your job meant to you.”

A little sigh breezed from her lips. “There are more important things.”

“If it’s any consolation, you were my favorite agent.”

She gawked at him like he’d gone mad, and then released a breath of laughter—

It was like a spark of electricity. The sensation swept through his mind; Charles snapped up. Beside him, Moira followed, peering at him with a mix of confusion and concern. 

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Charles didn't reply. His telepathy was alerting him to something beyond himself—something happening past his physical senses. The last time he felt it, he was in Miami on a naval ship with the coast guard while trying to apprehend Sebastian Shaw. Charles and Moira had been heading below deck when the sensation zapped him. He had sensed Erik out in the water. The other man’s presence had practically overwhelmed Charles’ mind.

This…this was bigger.

“Charles,” Moira called, “say something.”

Struggling to catch his breath, Charles turned back to the woman. “We need to leave. Now.”

**End of Chapter**


	41. Chapter 41

Magneto's brotherhood has lasted just over six months. In the grand scheme of things, that was rather pitiful now that Erik considered it. Standing in the gravel driveway of a condemned cabin outside of Los Angeles, he also knew one other thing—even if he did survive this moment, his brotherhood surely wouldn't.

Beside him, Mystique gripped his hand, practically cutting off circulation. The girl was clearly afraid of whatever was about to occur, but more than that, she was confused. She didn't know what was really happening—in fact, neither did Hank and Alex as they stood to Erik's left and right. 

Beside the Continental, Emma and Angel faced them—one woman in white, the other in black. As always, Emma gave no clue to what was going on underneath that pokerface. Beside her, Angel didn't hold the same impassive features, her face wrinkled with conflict. Nonetheless, both women were overshadowed by the man standing with them.

Azazel wasn't conflicted. He wasn't hiding his emotions, either. The man glared at Erik like a bull seeing red. 

"You have committed treason against us, Erik," Azazel spoke, his voice much calmer than his expression. "Against your kind. We cannot excuse this."

"So what's the plan exactly?" Magneto replied. "Kill me and put my head on a spike?"

"That is an idea."

"Riptide made his choice. And I did as I promised. It's as simple as that."

"I wasn't talking about Riptide." On the other man's face, a tiny grin emerged.

For an instant, Erik felt a surge of confusion that was probably similar to Mystique's. But as that snide little grin continued to beckon him, Erik finally realized what Azazel was doing.

"No," Erik said as if the word itself was enough to stop the other man.

"Your telepath is dead," Azazel declared to everyone. "And Magneto…he is his killer."

Mystique's grip tightened as if intending to cause pain. She spun her eyes his way, glancing at him up and down as if not understanding what she was seeing. "Erik?" she whispered.

"He's lying," Erik replied. "That's not what happened—"

"He strapped the telepath to Cerebro for hours," Azazel kept on. "It was just too much."

"Charles isn't dead!" Erik shouted.

"Then where is he?" Azazel came back. "I don't see him here."

Mystique's lips trembled; she wanted to believe Erik. But everything was hitting her too fast. Hank and Alex's features were not nearly as bewildered. Both men glared at Erik like he was standing there with blood on his hands.

Azazel didn't have to convince them for long—just long enough to side against Erik or stay out of the way. Just long enough for Azazel to kill him. And with all the power Erik possessed, going up against Emma, Angel and the teleporter on his own were not odds he wished to play. Especially if he ended up having to fight off Mystique and the others not involved in all this anarchy.

Trying to hold his composure, Erik told Mystique, "Riptide attacked Charles. He went to the base while we were searching for you—"

"I tried to stop Erik," Azazel cut in. "I convinced Riptide to come with me—he got in Erik's way. Erik killed him for it."

"Riptide forced Charles onto Cerebro," Erik continued. "I intervened and took Charles to a hospital. He's fine."

"That's not how it happened, comrade—"

"Charles is with Moira!" Erik shouted for all of them to hear. "And I'm certain they're searching for all of you this very moment."

"Mystique," Azazel called, his voice strangely soft. He extended a hand to her. "Your brother is dead. I saw it with my own eyes. I'm sorry."

The girl swung her gaze between Erik and Azazel. "No," she said, her eyes brimming with tears. "I don't believe you."

"I'm sorry," Azazel replied. "It was just too much. I don't believe Erik meant to kill him, but kill him he did."

Mystique didn't know what to believe…and that was enough. Her hand, which had held so tightly to Erik's just seconds before, slipped from his fingers. She backed away from him—from all of them—her face a blend of disbelief and agony. Despite all the harsh words between the siblings, Mystique still had love for Charles. Any hope Erik might have had to bring her to his side had just been washed away.

With the other mutants, he fared no better. Hank and Alex stood tall, alert and ready for any attack. Both men, however, didn't hold much interest to Azazel, Emma and Angel. Their eyes were fastened to Erik, waiting for the moment when the truth would ring out like a church bell.

That wouldn't happen, of course.

Erik was on his own.

And that was when Azazel attacked. Erik knew it was coming. Long before the teleporter disappeared into a cloud of fog, Erik knew it. So as Azazel flashed into existence just inches from his back, Erik reeled away. The other man's tail lashed out; it stabbed the air where Erik had been standing.

From behind Hank, Mystique shouted in protest.

That didn't slow the teleporter down. Nothing could, actually. Azazel had removed the metal from his suit; he possessed no weapons other than himself. He was prepared for this.

Azazel whipped around, his tail snapping, his right arm swinging. His fist slammed into Erik's face; with a groan, Erik dropped. Smacking into the gravel, a wave of pain wracked through his jawline. 

No time to recover.

Azazel stood over him. His tail plunged downwards. With a groan, Erik wrenched to his side, evading the spear-like limb. Again, it came for him, and again Erik pushed himself away. 

Around him, all the noise merged into a drone. He could swear he heard Mystique screaming, begging for Erik and Azazel to stop. But there was also Hank's voice—Alex's. 

With his power, Erik grabbed a hold of nearest metal. In the driveway, the Continental screeched protests as its right fender broke off like a brittle fingernail. It soared overhead.

Azazel's tail stabbed downwards again. This time, Erik didn't bother dodging it. As the fender flipped between the two men, it bounced Azazel's tail away as easily as a bullet from Erik's hands. The teleporter shouted; he staggered back—

Pain. It surged throughout Erik's head, down his body, and to his feet. With it, images flashed through his mind—snippets of memories. He was lying on an exam table. His head was restrained by a large metal strap…above him, Shaw peered downwards, a smile beaming…

With a gasp, Erik clasped his hands to his temples as he tried to ward off Emma's attack.

"Stop it!" Mystique screamed.

Beside the telepath, Angel was shouting as well, pointing to Erik and clearly pleading for all this to stop. Sean remained grounded, his body in a fetal position. Hank and Alex had disappeared from Erik's sight. In front of him, Azazel appeared from nothing. His tail lifted, ready to strike.

The blast of red lit up the forest. With it, Azazel was shot back a solid ten feet. He landed on his back and rolled on the gravel. Alex's chest plate hummed, the red in its center cooling.

"Stop this—now!" Hank shouted. "We're not going to stand here and slaughter each other!"

The dark memories inside Erik's mind dulled some. Emma brought her attention away from Erik to Hank and Alex, her eyes glaring. Beside her, Angel backed off. 

With a groan, Erik got his feet under him. A couple feet away, Alex and Hank walked forward, standing beside Erik. Tears drying on her face, Mystique joined them.

Azazel had recovered as well. Forcing himself upright, the other man marched back to Emma. He stared at the group, surveying the new threat. He called to Angel, insisting that she choose her side. Reluctantly, the girl wandered back to Emma.

"Is this how it'll be?" Erik asked. 

"You're either with us or against us, comrade," Azazel replied.

"You're as narrow-minded as Shaw."

On those words, the fighting started all over again. Azazel flashed away from his group. He reappeared by Erik. Emma transformed into her diamond state. Angel spread her wings. Alex's chest plate brightened.

The chaos continued.

**End of Chapter**


	42. Chapter 42

"There," Charles said as he pointed to Canyonback Road. 

They had already passed Bel Air, up the San Diego Freeway and into some rural area. The further Moira drove, the less civilization they found. The roads were narrowing. The woods were thickening around them.

With his fingers fixed to his left temple, Charles' eyes were heated with intensity. He had hardly said a word since leaving the hotel, so focused on whatever it was he was sensing that nothing else mattered.

"Drive faster," Charles muttered.

As Moira turned onto Canyonback, she worked the clutch and got the LaSabre up to seventy.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The Continental had been gutted. Its pieces soared around them, from the engine to the fuel tank to the buckles on the seat belts. Erik controlled them all. He had killed men with the sides of buildings to coins.

He could kill this man just the same.

Unfortunately, Azazel was fast. Elegant with his powers, he flashed in and out of the air as though it required no more effort than blinking his eyes. 

Another beam of red shot through the forest. Above them, Angel dodged the blast and then a cluster of fire balls spat from her lips. Alex dived away. The fire slammed into the driveway, up to the cabin and across its roof.

Within seconds, the cabin went ablaze.

Erik concentrated on Azazel. Anything else, and the other man would shred him with that tail before Erik even knew what had happened. But it wasn't just Erik on the attack. Beside him, Hank swung his claws as Azazel whisked by, the red man slashing at Erik across his shoulder. 

Erik hurled the car's engine. It slammed into the ground as the teleporter disappeared yet again. Then, the red fog materialized again—practically on top of Erik. Hands grabbed his turtle neck. 

Then, there was nothing except red.

It only lasted an heartbeat, but as Erik and Azazel reformed, the teleporter's little grin had returned. Erik glanced down. Below, the forest almost appeared like a painting—too distant to be real.

The wind blasted around them as they plummeted downwards from the sky. 

Azazel's tail snaked around Erik's neck. Erik stabbed his fingernails into the curled tail, but no air could breech the teleporter's hold. Erik's eyes blurred. Without glancing back, he snapped his elbow behind him. It knocked into Azazel's nose. The tail loosened but didn't release.

From his belt, Erik grabbed a hold of the only metal on his body—his buckle. The metal ripped from the leather. It shot towards its target. With a Russian curse, Azazel shoved Erik away. His tail unraveled; his body spun in mid-air as he attempting to dodge the metal. Then, his tail snapped upwards. It curled around the buckle. Before Erik even registered what happened, the teleporter flashed away, and then reappeared a second later.

The metal was gone.

Gasping, Erik shot a look downwards. The trees were approaching fast.

He tried to feel for something—any metal on the ground—to help him. Nothing. He was too high up from the cabin. The metal was too scarce. As Azazel whipped his tail out again, Erik grabbed a hold of the thing. He pulled.

With a shout, the teleporter jerked forward. Erik's fist was there to met him. The impact shot Azazel away by at least three feet, splattering blood through the air between the two men.

Heart racing, Erik focused. It didn't matter if he sensed the metal from five hundred feet or fifty. As long as he found it before he hit the ground.

Below, an orange glow brightened the landscape. Smoke from the cabin consumed the air, practically blinding Erik as he continued plunging to the unforgiving ground.

_Focus._

His arms remained stretched out, his fingers straining. He felt his anger fuel him, that coldness consuming his body. 

From beside him, Azazel had regained his composure. He flashed to Erik's right, his left and back around to his front. Each time, he swung a hand or foot or his tail. It wasn't enough to kill Erik. It was just enough to keep him distracted—just enough to ensure that Erik didn't survive the fall.

The air in Erik's lungs felt like frostbite. The sweat across his face froze to his skin. The red fog mixed with the ashen smoke from below and all Erik could do was dodge the blows.

With Azazel attacking him, Erik couldn't find his focus. He was helpless. With that thought, a wave of fury dug into every fiber of his being. It practically numbed him, paralyzing him within its cold grasp as he strained to regain his concentration—

But the anger wasn't enough. He had learned that lesson already, months before. When his old friend challenged him to reach for something much larger than himself. 

Azazel continued to surround him from every direction. The ground continued approaching like a pit of fire that Erik couldn't avoid. Yet, inside him, the cold fury calmed. Time seemed to slow. Erik took in a breath.

Below, the view of the anarchy played like a movie in his head, something he couldn't change—just watch. Beside the other mutants, bits of metal littered the forest—pieces mixed with gravel and dirt and with his outstretched hand, Erik sensed it.

A hundred feet from the tree line.

Azazel punched him in the stomach; the wind was knocked from his lungs. 

Eighty feet.

Hearing Erik's command, a small piece of the Continental's bumper shot up from the ground—

Fifty.

Through the trees, the piece of metal soared, its silver rims glinting orange from the morning sun.

Thirty feet.

Inhaling calmly, Erik allowed the cool metal to fly beside him. As Azazel continued thrashing at him from every direction, the teleporter didn't even see the fender until it slammed into his side. As if on reflex, he flashed away and didn't materialize again.

Ten feet.

Erik pulled the metal to himself. His fingers closed around it.

He slammed into the trees. The leaves brushed against his face; the branches smacked into his limbs and torso like arms swinging out to strike him. Nonetheless, as Erik held the metal tight within his mental grasp, he slowed. As gentle as the leaves floating to the ground, Erik eased down towards the driveway.

Around the cabin, the other mutants continued fighting. Angel buzzed over their heads, fire balls spitting from her mouth. In her diamond form, Emma kicked Alex in the stomach just as the young man's chest plate heated a solid red. Hank shoved her away. Mystique had reached Sean and was trying to get him to his feet.

Panting, Azazel remained on his hands and knees, his tail laying motionless.

Twenty feet from the ground, Erik grabbed a hold of all the metal he could sense. He split it apart—one weapon became three. Three weapons became into six. With a flick of his hand, he spun the pieces into the air. From the ground, Azazel pitched a glance upwards as the metal swarmed like insects above him.

Landing on the ground, Erik dropped his hand. 

With it, every piece of metal shot towards Azazel. 

The teleporter flashed away. A heartbeat later, he reappeared beside Erik. He tried to grab for Erik's turtleneck again, but a piece of scrap metal slammed into his hands. The teleporter flung his tail forward—another piece of metal ricocheted it away. Beyond them, Emma shoved Alex to the ground. She raced towards Erik, her mind instantly invading his.

Erik felt it—the pain and memories—and it almost made his knees buckle. Almost. He held onto his calm anger, a place where he could still focus through the rage in his heart. Steeling himself from the agony, Erik tossed the car's fender towards the telepath. It clipped her side, reeling her around.

Azazel teleported from Erik's left to his right—to his back to front—and anywhere else he could strike and dodge at the same instant. But the teleporter possessed a problem; there were only four positions for him to play. And he wasn't as unpredictable as he believed.

Front—left—right—back…

Back—left—front—back…

Near the cabin, Hank charged forward. Getting upright again, Alex's chest plate burned bright. Above, Angel soared forward, her mouth already contorted like a cat about to hiss.

Erik could hear as Mystique screamed for them to stop. There was so much pleading in her voice, it almost made Erik wish there was another way. But that time had passed. Now, he had to deal with the present.

Right—left—back—right…

With his abilities, Erik hovered a shard of metal just a few feet away. It was the size of a bottle cap. That was all he needed, really.

Back—left—front—back…

From behind, Alex shot another blast at Emma; the pain in Erik's skull dimmed as she dropped to her knees to evade the red beam.

Right— _left_ —front—back…

Front…

The metal shot out.

The teleporter appeared to Erik's left. His tail was positioned a little different, curled just over his own shoulder. That's when Erik realized he'd made a mistake. He had been too focused on attacking Azazel, he had hindered his own defense.

With nothing to block it, the tail shot towards Erik's face…

_Numb._

On their own, Erik's legs folded; he dropped to the ground. Azazel's tail whisked through the air where Erik's head had been. The teleporter collapsed a second later, right before the metal shard was about to stab into his neck.

Around them, all the floating metal crashed to the ground.

Gasping, Erik tried to get up. He couldn't. The lower half of his body…it was numb. Paralyzed. His legs were crossed on top of each other and neither responded to his commands.

Beside him, Azazel appeared the same. He seemed to be trying to flash away, but as he grabbed his right thigh, it was clear he was going nowhere.

Erik surveyed the other mutants. Just a few feet away, Hank lay on the driveway, his head arched upwards; near the cabin, Alex resembled his blue-haired friend. Mystique was no different, lying beside Sean as the boy rested his head to the gravel. Angel had been grounded; she was hunched over on her stomach, her wings limply cloaking her back.

The only exception was Emma. In her diamond form, she kept trying to drag herself off the ground. Her legs were wobbling—her feet not obeying her demands.

That's when Erik noticed him. In a LaSabre that seemed to have appeared from nowhere, Charles Xavier sat. The passenger door open, his head peeked out from the car, his fingers planted to his left temple. On his face, a visage of determination and even anger now camouflaged the fatigue the man had possessed the last time Erik saw him. 

"Enough!" Charles screamed at all of them.

As Erik remained with his back to the driveway, that one word struck him like a knife to his back. He studied the image before him—a pile of the most evolved men and women in the world. And here they were, trying to exterminate each other.

From the LaSabre's driver's side, Moira jumped out. She rushed to Sean, and wrapped her arms around him. At that, the boy's legs shifted as if coming out a trance; with her help, he began to stand. Beside Sean, Mystique's also stirred; her legs bent and then she rolled over to her hands and knees. She stared at Charles, her expression overwhelmed with surprise and relief. Charles peered at her, and despite the frustration on his features, his face softened just a little.

Slowly, Hank and Alex followed Sean and Mystique. They groaned as they forced themselves upright. Then, the men started towards Charles, the cabin behind them smoldering as the fire began to die. The stench of burning wood singed Erik's nostrils.

Still slumped over, Erik turned back to Emma. Awkwardly, the woman was getting her feet under her—her telepathy clearly recuperating from the shock. Beside Erik, Azazel lay, just as helpless as Erik in that moment as their legs refused to function.

At that, a dark reality struck Erik's mind. This wasn't an illusion Charles was projecting. It was his own senses—his own body. It was how Charles felt at every moment—everyday—and as the gravity of that thought grabbed hold, any rage Erik had been feeling drained away.

His fingers still to his head, Charles eyed Erik. Anger still glowed from the man's cool stare, but underneath it, other emotions played. Sadness. Pity. Charles was pitying him.

"If you wish to build an army simply to destroy yourselves, then have at it!" Charles shouted from the car. "But leave us be!"

He slammed the passenger door. His eyes still remained fixed to Erik, as though his statement was meant more for just him as opposed to everyone else. Perhaps it was. Perhaps Charles expected more from Erik—someone who Charles had befriended, who had fought alongside him. Who Charles understood better than perhaps even Erik did about himself.

With Sean, Hank and Alex in the back of the LaSabre, Moira cranked the car. Charles kept his gaze to Erik—focused, strong, intense—as the vehicle pulled away from the cabin.

From his legs, Erik felt the tingling of sensation slowly start to return. Nonetheless, as he watched the car speed out of view, a feeling of emptiness grabbed a hold of him that would not recover as easily as his crippled body. Charles was gone yet again, off to another life. Back with friends who had risked everything to save him. 

And all Erik could do was lay there, helpless to do anything in that moment but wait as his legs slowly crept back to life.

**End of Chapter**

**Remember to check out my blog at[www.erinjensen.wordpress.com ](http://www.erinjensen.wordpress.com)for the latest entry!**


	43. Chapter 43

A minute after Charles and the others departed, Erik's legs surged back to life as if coming out of a spell. Sensation poured through the limbs from waist to toes; he shot a look to the others. They were coming out of it as well—Azazel's eyes were already locked to Erik as both men rolled to their knees and warily got their feet under them.

However, the fury that had cursed Azazel's expression had subsided. The teleporter turned to Mystique as the girl glared at him, and a touch of guilt afflicted his features. 

"You lied to me," she said.

Behind him, his tail lowered as if in defeat; he said nothing.

None of them did. As Emma and Angel approached, they all shared the same expression as though sharing the same mind. They had been foolish. They had ripped their own brotherhood apart for no real purpose.

Spotting that look of resignation on everyone's faces, Erik took the advantage. 

Around them, the metal heard his call. A piece slammed into the side of Emma's head, wrapping tight. At the same time, Erik pitched a slab of metal to Angel. Both girls jerked their hands to their faces. They dropped to their knees, struggling to pry the metal away.

Before Azazel had a chance to react, Erik already had the broken fender curled around the red man's back, the ends almost piercing the teleporter's arms.

Gasping, Mystique dropped to Emma and Angel's sides. "What are you doing?" she screamed at him.

"Proving a point," Erik came back, tightening the fender.

Grunting, Azazel peered up at Erik with a mix of rage, confusion and fear. Yes, there was fear under that pale blue glare. Azazel had let his guard down. Now he would pay the price for that mistake.

Kneeling to the ground, Erik tipped his head curiously at the other man. "Now," he spoke, "we are going to take care of some unfinished business… _comrade_."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The LaSabre sped down the San Diego Freeway. Moira's features appeared calm, but her foot practically crushed the gas pedal. Charles had already assured her Erik and the others wouldn't pursue. It was over, at least for Charles and the rest of them. For now.

From the backseat, Sean was breathing heavily. His face was a mess. The right eye had darkened to a puffy black and his lip was cut. Blood had dried underneath his nose; his skin was almost as red as his hair.

Resting an arm across the back of his seat, Charles told the young man, "We're taking you to hospital."

Sean shook his head. "No, I'm okay. Let's just…get out of here."

Charles had heard that line before—from his own mouth. "You're not all right," he replied. "We're taking you to a see a doctor—no debate. Yes?"

As if disappointed, the other man nodded.

With that, Charles brought his attention to Hank in the middle seat. The blue man's expression practically radiated of concern for him, the same concern he had been expressing towards Charles for the last several months. Instead of feeling annoyed, however, a surge of guilt jabbed Charles' insides. 

"I'm sorry," Charles told his friend. 

Hank blinked. "For what?" 

"For all of it. You were right, my friend. You were right about me. Even before all of this nonsense." 

"So…what do we do now?"

That seemed like the question of the day. On his seat, Charles lifted and dropped his arm. "I don't know. I honestly don't."

Charles glanced at Moira. Her eyes were already there to meet his—a reassuring glimmer in those pools of brown. She had more confidence in him that moment than he felt in himself. 

"Well," Sean suddenly spoke up, "here's something that might make you feel better."

Despite the pain on his features, the young man grabbed the zipper to his shirt. Charles furrowed his brow, watching as Sean unzipped his uniform. Instead of skin, however, something white was protruding from underneath the Kevlar.

"Here," Sean said and pulled out a pile of sweaty papers. "I thought you'd want these."

He handed them to Charles. Curiously, Charles studied the pages. As he realized what they were, his eyes almost bugged out of his head. 

Coordinates—pages of them.

"Where did you get these?" Charles barely managed to get out.

"On the yacht," Sean replied. "I found them just laying in one of the rooms."

On the paperwork, there were at least a hundred coordinates…it must have been the print-out from Charles' time on Cerebro.

"My God," Charles muttered as his hands fumbled through the papers. The coordinates ranged across the globe—from the United States to Europe, to Africa and as far as Australia. As the LaSabre drove further away from Erik and his brotherhood, Charles gazed at the list before him and smiled.

**End of Chapter**


	44. Chapter 44

**_Sorry for the massive delay, everyone! My computer crashing and Christmas craziness are my excuses of choice._ **

**_Here is chapter 44; only one more chapter after this! It makes me a little sad._ **

**Chapter 44…**

It was astounding how easy problems could be resolved with just a little bit of pain. Azazel did as Erik instructed; he didn't really have much choice. The only other mutant that might have been strong enough to defeat Erik was Emma, and the White Queen had other problems at the moment.

Within minutes of Charles and his mutants departing, Erik found himself back at the island base. He dropped Azazel just outside the main door as he did the last time he stood there, and then entered. Inside, Cerebro laid in shambles. Gray panels were scattered across the stone floor—busted pieces of the control board were in ruins. 

Of course, that wasn’t the worst of it.

The place reeked a putrid stench only a dead body produced. Riptide's corpse lay just below the steps leading to the machine, a read-out page from Cerebro crumpled on the floor just a few feet away. Underneath him, the blood had swelled, still drying on the marble. On the dead man's head was what Erik had journeyed there to retrieve.

Extending his hand, Erik felt the maroon helmet within his power. It heard his call and within seconds, it reached his awaiting fingers. Crimson coated its front where Riptide's head had practically been submerged in his own blood. Erik didn't concern himself with such details.

With both his hands, he lowered the helmet to his head. It fit like a crown.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

By mid-morning, the weather warmed the tropics to a peaceful eighty degrees—the same it had been the last day Erik was standing on the _Cassandra_ with his fellow mutants. And, just like before, the tension between them had destroyed any comfort the sun might have provided.

Except now, Erik knew what he needed to do.

Standing on the yacht's foredeck, he released the metal from Emma and Angel's faces. Beside each other on one of the lounge chairs, the women gasped as if they had just had their heads lifted from a bucket of water. Emma's hair was matted to her head, her eyes dazed. Angel looked like she was hung over. As the women finally surveyed the surroundings, a sense of dread overshadowed their features. 

To Erik's right, Mystique stood tall and silent like a bodyguard. At their feet, Azazel remained wrapped in metal from toes to neck. Beside him, another figure rested, slumped over and decomposing. Riptide.

With his powers, Erik rocketed Azazel across the foredeck's floor. The teleporter groaned as he stopped by Emma's feet.

"Now," Erik said. "We have much to discuss, my brothers and sisters. I suggest you listen well."

Emma sized him up, clearly determining—even with his helmet blocking her telepathy—if she stood a chance of defeating him. Angel did the same, but as the seconds ticked, common sense seemed to overpower the rebellion within them. A diamond body and fire balls were no real threat.

Nonetheless, Erik's quarrel wasn't really with the two women. Despite their impatience, neither one were a part of Riptide's plan at the base. They were simply following Azazel to avenge an injustice towards Riptide, as misguided as it was. 

Erik planned to clarify that. So as he stepped forward, his gaze targeted the true threat in their circle. A foot away from Azazel, he knelt down.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "Or, better put, what you're hoping. That by some miracle, the metal will loosen like at the hospital, and you'll teleport away. You'll be able to start this over again, and take me down." A smile curved on his lips. "You'd enjoy killing me, wouldn't you, Azazel?"

The other man tensed. 

Erik lifted his point finger like a teacher emphasizing something important to a pupil. "Your anger is misguided, my friend. I warned you what would happen if you turned against me. I warned Riptide what would happen if he ventured to that base, and I did exactly as I promised. You have no one to blame for your current circumstances except yourself."

The fury inside the other man's eyes blazed like that alone could kill Erik. But deep within them, a vestige of defeat was looming. Azazel understood what Erik was saying, even if he didn’t wish to hear it.

"Make no mistake," Erik continued, "you deserve to die for what you have done. You allowed Riptide to brutally attack one of your own kind—pretending that the telepath was an enemy to justify these actions. It's treason, my friend.

"However," Erik went on, "dead, you can do nothing to help our cause. And you're capable of being so much more than a corpse. The question isn't whether or not you wish to kill me, Azazel—the question is, will you stand with us despite that desire?"

"Please," Mystique said from beside Erik. "No more, Azazel. We don't have to do this."

Erik opened his hand. Around Azazel, the metal stirred. Erik stood back up, towering over the other man as Azazel slowly regained his freedom.

"Now," Erik said as the teleporter slid the metal off his arms. "We can start this again, exactly where we left off. But I will offer you one last promise—if the two of us engage in this ridiculous conflict…this time, it will only be between the two of us. And only one will survive it."

Azazel wiggled his legs out of the final bits of metal. He eyed Erik, clearly debating whether or not his proclamation was true. As Erik stood tall, his face unflinching, Azazel finally seemed to realize that Erik would not exaggerate such things. 

"Are you with me?" Erik asked, and extended his arm, palm open.

Azazel glanced at Erik's hand, and then with a resigned shadow on his face, he lifted his own. He closed his fingers around Erik's, and with that, Erik helped him stand.

"I would like nothing more than to kill you," Azazel said as he got his feet under him.

"And I, you," Erik replied. "But the question is—do we intend to?"

Azazel tossed a glance to Mystique, and then shook his head. "No."

"That's all that matters, isn't it?"

With those words, Erik retracted his arm. He gave the teleporter a once-over, noting his damaged garbs. Traces of blood stained the suit where the metal had cut just a little too close.

Nonetheless, Erik wasn't finished. He beckoned to Riptide's corpse. Wrapped in Cerebro's wires, the body dragged across the foredeck towards the other mutants, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. As it stopped, Erik surveyed the others. Then, with his power, he levitated Riptide into the air just inches from them. The body dangled in the air like a wrinkled suit, Riptide's head drooped to one side.

"I want it known," Erik declared to all of them, "this is not Shaw's brotherhood. It is mine. We are here to bring hope to our fellow mutants—to protect them—to bond all of us together when the humans decide it is time to exterminate our kind. And that time will come. There will be war, my brothers and sisters, and we must stand together. But we will not make enemies of our fellow mutants. Never again." 

He lifted Riptide's body high above them, the blood across his suit glinting in the sun. "Riptide has paid the price for this betrayal and it is a price he well-deserved. There is only one thing we will ask of any mutant who doesn't wish to join our cause…"

Flicking his hand, Erik tossed Riptide's body away. It soared from the _Cassandra_ , and hit the Pacific with a melodramatic splash.

"…that they stay out of our way," Erik finished.

On those words, the other mutants stood in front of him. Similar to the moment on the Cuban beach, Erik awaited their decision. Beside him, Mystique took his right hand in her left. Her fingers closed around his. Then, Angel stepped forward; she stood by Erik's left. With slight reluctance, Emma followed.

Alone, Azazel swayed his tail back and forth. Erik already knew the teleporter's decision, but it was still pleasing to see as the rebellion in the other man's eyes disappeared like a soldier waving a white flag. Azazel didn't step in line with the others, but as he nodded, Erik knew that was enough.

Magneto and his Brotherhood of Mutants were reborn.

**End of Chapter**


	45. Chapter 45

**Last chapter! Sorry for the delay.**

**This is so bittersweet. Please check the end of this chapter for a special message; it's about four paragraphs long.**

**Chapter 45…**

Two weeks later:

 

Levene promised himself not to get involved any further. He’d already helped Moira by stealing a pile of government files at her request—that was supposed to be the end of it. Nonetheless, as he stood hunched over outside of Director McCone’s office, he couldn’t help but press his ear to the door.

McCone’s assistant had left for the day; other agents had gone home to their families. Levene should have been doing the same. But when he had spotted General Wisner that afternoon in the hallway, strolling beside Agent Stryker like the men were best buds, Levene had a feeling he needed to stick around. 

“So she’s just gone?” Stryker asked, his voice sounding even more irritated than normal.

He must have been talking about Moira; Levene clenched his teeth in response.

A second later, he heard as McCone released a sigh. “It’s been a few weeks,” McCone explained. “Maybe more—I don’t know.”

“And no leads on where she is now?” Stryker pressed.

All the men grew silent; the only sound resonating through Levene’s ears was the thumping in his chest. Now he was glad he’d gone to Moira’s apartment the week before and retrieved all the stolen files and her yarn-covered map. And burned it all.

From inside the room, there came a bang, like an opened-palm slamming a desk top.

“Dammit, McCone!” Stryker shouted. “That was our best chance at locating these…these freaks of nature!”

“I’m going to be blunt, Agent Stryker,” McCone replied. “If Moira MacTaggert has gone AWOL, it’s certainly not for Erik Lehnsherr and the Hellfire Club.”

“No, it’s for the damn telepath that’s warped her mind!” 

Someone groaned—might have been McCone; Levene couldn’t tell.

“I’m more concerned about the mutants that tried to _start_ a nuclear war,” McCone said, “and attempted to murder the entire seventh fleet. Not the ones who tried to prevent it.”

“We need to find all of them,” Stryker came back. “They’re too dangerous to be left out in the general population, even the more ‘peaceful’ ones.”

The men paused. Levene held his breath, suddenly realizing that if they caught him there, he might not just be fired. He might be arrested. Or worse.

“General Wisner,” Stryker spoke, his voice calmer, “would you please offer your proposal to Director McCone?”

“We've read all the agents' reports about their encounters with these mutants," the general said. "And here is the bottom line. These people—no matter their motives—pose a serious threat to national security. We need to be prepared if and when that threat becomes paramount.”

“What do you suggest?” McCone asked. “We don’t even know how many exist or how to find them—it makes preparation a little difficult.”

“With what we have in store,” General Wisner explained, “the numbers won’t matter.”

Someone began to shuffle papers. Hovering his ear just by the doorknob, Levene tried to maintain steady breaths. He had discouraged Moira from seeking out Xavier and the other mutants; now, she could end up in the line of fire. 

The shuffling stopped.

“We’ll start off small,” General Wisner said. “A few prototypes—we already have some of our best researchers designing the blueprints.”

“And what exactly will these ‘prototypes’ do?” McCone asked.

“We have several ideas already,” Stryker chimed in. “Super-strength will be a must, of course. Perhaps speed—possibly flight, if we can manage it—”

“And you believe we can get funding for this?” McCone asked.

“Once we show the blueprints to the president for review,” Wisner said. “It’s amazing how one of these mutants having the ability to propel four dozen missiles across an ocean can speed up politics.”

Another pause. On his face, Levene’s glasses were fogging up; sweat moistened his brow. 

“All right,” McCone replied with a hint of reluctance. “If the president wishes to pursue this proposal, I will offer my full support with its creation.”

From Stryker, a sigh of relief. “That’s a wise decision, John.”

“Or a damning one.” McCone cleared his throat. “What exactly are we calling this, by the way?”

“The ‘Sentinel Project’,” Wisner replied, his voice resonating with pride.

The men continued to chatter, going on about the mutants, about the ‘sentinels,’ but Levene decided he’d tested his luck enough for one night. He eased away from the door. 

They’d still search for Moira, wherever she had gone—even though she had done nothing wrong. She might end up getting hurt or even killed thanks to the mutants. Nonetheless, as Levene finally backed out into the hallway and away from the three other men still plotting, he knew where the real problem rested—where his anger belonged.

It wasn’t Moira’s fault; it wasn’t her mutant allies.

It was the humans. Just like Cuba, Stryker and the others were determined to destroy the “mutant threat” as soon as the opportunity presented itself. The missiles had been launched…and it was because of that decision, thousands of naval men almost lost their lives. The mutants had reacted to the threat against them and had done a damn good job of it, too. 

They’d do it again, and next time, it might not be mere soldiers caught in the cross-fire.

The gravity of the situation started to make Levene’s head ache. Hurrying away, he headed for the nearest exit. He needed to get home to his wife and kids, back where things still made sense. For as long as they could.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

The morning's sun had brightened from soft orange to crystal white. Sitting at the desk in his study, Charles Xavier lowered his pen; he marked the paper as if the signature alone was worthy of a medal.

And it was, for certain. It had taken months and more contracts than Charles ever wished to lay eyes on again, but that was the last of them. Once he dropped the papers in the mail, his teaching license was all-but secured. Now, he simply needed to finish renovating his mansion, get things squared away with his physical therapy, find students, build dormitories and classrooms…

Charles shook his head; he was getting ahead of himself again. He did that on good days. They came and went, mixing with the bad ones, and it all seemed to be strangely random. The next morning, he might find it difficult to drag himself out of bed. Just imagining all that one task would demand—checking his skin for pressure ulcers, stretching his legs, and fighting through even the simpler routines like dressing himself sometimes just proved too daunting. The doubts would threaten his resolve; he'd have to remind himself that he could do this. He could find the will.

Some days were better than others. But he had to face them all regardless.

Outside the office, Charles heard the bustling of contractors; the mansion was overrun by them again. The only exception was the second floor's west wing. Charles had finally convinced Hank to move his laboratory from the basement to a part of the mansion that would at least provide sunlight. It wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

At the moment, most of the workers were busy tackling the walls near the main staircase. Their sledgehammers had been swinging all morning; the mansion rumbled with each busted piece of drywall.

Charles' elevator was finally being constructed. Alex and Sean were keeping watch over the mayhem, and Charles let them. And it didn't really matter if it took a week or months for the elevator to be constructed, anyway. After returning home, Charles decided that keeping his second-floor bedroom was irrational. He'd have to ride the elevator each time he visited the kitchen or living room, or to venture outside. The bedroom on the first floor provided the same accommodations and was already modified for his needs.

It was another change—something else to adjust to. 

But that didn't necessarily mean it was bad. Sometimes, it was just…change.

Folding the contracts, Charles put them aside. Underneath, a few pieces of old notes were lumped together. Upon seeing them, Charles paused. Scribbled on one of the pages was a hand-drawn diagram of the back of his mansion as if seen from above. He had drawn it just a week before Erik had kidnapped him. The picture was sloppy; any decent artist would have shot him for such an offense. Nonetheless, as Charles picked up the paper, his fingers grazed across the colored lines like he was holding something fragile.

From the study's door, there came a knock. Peeking up, Charles called, "Yes, come in, please."

The door crept open, and then Moira MacTaggert stepped inside. The slender woman was wearing a simple pair of black slacks and an aqua short-sleeved blouse. Her auburn hair curled around her face, and looked especially red in the room's white light. In her hand was a manila envelope.

As Charles' eyes met hers, he lifted the diagram. "I want to build a basketball court."

"Today?" Moira asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

"No, not _today_." He smiled and swayed the paper at her.

Taking the cue, Moira approached him. She accepted the diagram, examining the details. 

"Do you think the students would like that?" Charles asked.

"They'd hate it," she replied without looking up. "Children and basketball—where's your head, Charles?"

"All right—all right." He snatched the paper back. "Yes, silly question."

With that, Moira grinned at him and then extended her hand with the envelope. "This was in the mail today."

Furrowing his brow, Charles took the package and gave it a once-over. No writing marked its surface. No stamps, either. Flipping it over, Charles peeled open the tab. Inside, a few pieces of paper were poking out from the top, and as Charles slid them out, his heart sank to his stomach.

"Is that what I think it is?" Moira asked, her grin dropping.

Charles let out a ragged breath. 

Coordinates. 

Just like the ones Sean had stolen from Erik's yacht, these were pulled from Cerebro's print-out. They must have been some extras Erik, Azazel, or another mutant had split off from the main list.

About thirty of them lined the page. Between a few, however, rectangular holes had been sliced from the paper. Coordinates had been cut away, ones Charles and the others weren't permitted to view. Mutants Erik had obviously recruited.

Squinting his eyes shut, Charles gripped the pages. The memories of his time with Erik and his brotherhood were still too fresh. His left wrist was still stained with a pale purple bruise; he could still taste Riptide's handkerchief in his mouth. 

And even after weeks back home, his mind was still craving Cerebro. It was almost addictive, that sensation. He had become reluctant at the idea of Hank redesigning the machine now; with something that powerful, it couldn't be used as a means for him to escape his life like a drug. He had to respect that power, harness it for good. And that alone had to be its purpose. 

Charles wasn't ready for that responsibility—not yet.

Releasing a sigh, Charles brought his attention back to Moira. Her face was wrinkled with curiosity. 

"Here," Charles said and handed over the papers.

Gawking at the coordinates, Moira blinked a few times. "Are these from…"

"Erik, yes."

"He's just handing these over?"

Charles thought a moment. After all that had happened—all Erik had done—Charles should have hated him. Even if he could forgive the torture he'd endured at that island base, Charles' life would never be the same. He hadn't lied when he said he was trapped in a wheelchair because of Erik's endless need for vengeance. Charles was forever injured, never to be healed.

But Charles couldn't find it in himself to hold onto that hate. He was tired of blaming everyone—Erik, the humans, himself. It would offer no solutions and only fuel more bitterness. 

His injury was a part of his life now.

But it wasn't his _whole_ life.

On that thought, Charles finally said, "Perhaps, Erik believes he is doing what he must to protect our kind. Denying mutants the opportunity to be with others like them is not something he desires."

Moira frowned. "You give him too much credit, Charles."

"I'm not so certain of that. No matter what has happened—or will happen—Erik believes he's on the side of good. Reducing him to a cartoon villain will only hinder any hopes of uniting all of mutant kind."

Moira hesitated at that. Lowering the coordinates in her hand, she declared, "Even now, you still can't accept him as the enemy." It wasn't a question.

Considering, Charles replied, "No. Perhaps I never will."

Charles expected Moira to make a face, irritated by his logic—or lack thereof. Instead, a smile grew on her lips. "You know what, Professor? It's that type of thinking that makes you the better man." 

Charles' face warmed a little; he reached out and closed his left hand around Moira's free one. 

Suddenly, the woman flinched as if she just remembered something. She shot a glimpse at the clock on the wall and then released his hand. "It's time to go."

Charles glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. He was hoping she was wrong, but Erik's wristwatch was accurate to the tick. 

"Damn," he muttered.

"Don't be a baby," Moira replied and dropped the list of coordinates on his desk. She grabbed the back of his wheelchair like he'd try to escape otherwise. "Lots of people do this."

"Only the ones with an aversion to sanity."

"Okay, that's not going to help you now."

Moira rolled him away from the desk. By the room's entrance, she stepped away from the wheelchair, and opened the door. "Stop whining—start moving. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can come back."

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Transferring into his chair from his navy blue Cadillac, Charles peered up at the building in front of him. With only one floor, it wasn't nearly as luxurious as the Salem Outpatient Rehabilitation Center. The brick walls had aged a bit; the wood had become a little worn. Nonetheless, the parking lot was packed, and as Moira closed her hands on his wheelchair's push handles, a sense of curiosity glowed on her features.

Charles was not quite as enthusiastic. In fact, during the twenty minute car ride, his annoyance had darkened to all-out dread. He had been avoiding this since arriving home. Just like plucking a splinter from a finger, however, it was something that needed to be done. But just like a splinter, it didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

"What am I supposed to do exactly?" he asked as Moira propelled him through the front doors.

"You're the professor. I'm sure you can figure it out."

"I can't discuss my telepathy. I can't even explain how I was shot in the first place."

"But you can talk about how it made you feel. That's worth the admission price, isn't it?"

They turned a corner. In front of them, a doctor's suite stared back; Charles' stomach churned. With Moira's assistance, he wrestled the door and wheeled inside. The waiting area was quaint. Flower paintings cluttered the walls. A receptionist sat behind a counter with a large vase of carnations resting on its surface. The place reeked of all things _flower_ , including the air.

Moira checked Charles in and then sat beside him. They waited. Moira patted her hands to her lap, her eyes scanning the room. Little fidgets—she was nervous, too.

Reaching out, Charles took Moira's left hand in his right. He caressed his thumb across her skin; with that, she leaned over, and rested her head against his shoulder.

"You ever wonder about it all?" she whispered. "If I had never found you in that pub—if none of this had happened—"

"Then I never would have discovered my kind," he replied. "I never would have known anyone else existed beyond Raven and myself." He eased his head gently onto hers. "I never would have met you."

She squeezed his hand.

"Charles?" a woman called.

Peeking up, Charles spotted a middle-aged woman standing in front of the receptionist's desk with a notepad in her hands and thick-rimmed glasses dangling from her neck.

"Yes?" he said.

The woman stepped forward, hand extended. "I'm Dr. Berman," the psychologist said as they shook hands. "You can call me Judith. Are you ready?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Then, if you'd follow me…" She opened her arm towards the hallway behind the receptionist.

Charles glanced once more at Moira; she smiled. Bringing her hand upwards, he planted a small kiss and then turned back to the psychologist. Judith nodded at him and then started back down the hall. He grabbed his wheelchair's handrims.

As he left Moira in the waiting room, Charles couldn't help but wonder how things had worked out this way. Just a few months ago, he was graduating from Oxford. He had his sights set on the entire world, thinking anything was possible. He was limitless. He was also clueless, unfocused, and had no purpose in life other than getting drunk and seducing women. 

That life was over. For whatever this new one would entail, he needed to start it. It wouldn't always be easy; he wouldn't always know which path to choose. And he still had a long way to travel just to feel like himself again. But for the first time in a long time, he was truly confident that would happen eventually.

He simply needed to take it one day at a time—one obstacle at a time. 

One accomplishment at a time.

Little victories.

**The End**

**I want to say thank you to everyone who has taken time to read my fan fiction over the last several months, and a special thanks to everyone who left a review (or several reviews). Since writing fan fictions isn't exactly profitable, seeing the hit count rise and reading reader feedback is the reward and it's a great one. On FFN, this fan fiction has reached just over 60,000 hits, and over 250 reviews; in combination with other sites hosting it, the hit count is closer to 85,000 with almost 350 reviews total.**

**I have thoroughly enjoyed posting this story, and hope another X-men idea will strike me sometime in the future. Currently, I just finished writing an original novel, so that's taking up my creative juices right now.**

**I will also continue posting in my blog, keeping up with X-men news, offering interesting links, fan art, reviews and articles at[www.erinjensen.wordpress.com](http://www.erinjensen.wordpress.com)**

**From this point on, this fan fiction is complete—no new chapters will be written and no revisions will be made except for maybe some grammatical ones. Thank you for reading my story! If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to write a review.**

**Until next time! —Erin**


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